Friday, November 23, 2012

the war on not christmas

Sweet baby Jesus the war on Not Christmas is heating up. Not Christmas is trembling in the corner as Father Christmas, having broken and entered, romps around a giant nativity scene bellowing, off-pitch, about a child who just saw a fat burglar in a red pajama suit kissing her mom. Egg nog in hand, he clumsily shifts to a different track, warning that he sees you when you're sleeping, knows when you're hiding from him under the bed. He's inside your head, along with Jesus. He'll punish or reward you based on how you conform to his wishes. He doesn't mention how his offerings of sugar and plastic are made by Indonesian child slaves. That's too obviously evil.

Whoops, did I say the war on Not Christmas is heating up? I meant flaring up, because Christmas is a hemorrhoid on the ass of the universe, at most. This entire scene is intra-hemorrhoidal. Not christmas only exists in relation to Christmas. That ass will heal, friends.

Anyway, how about that war on Muslims, a war that's actually a war, with bombs and whatforth?

Wednesday, November 21, 2012


There's a beefy brawler, some kind of pro fighter, encroaching on your wheelchair-bound grandma's property. He's all "I'm taking this, ya mind?" She's like "mmm, yeah?" and he's like "go fuck yahself!" He comes and goes as he pleases and tells her which parts of the house she can use and when. Can I use the bathroom now? Maybe. Sometimes she gathers the courage to spit at him, defiantly, knowing she stands no chance, knowing the payback will make her regret it, physically. Self-respect is worth it. He beats the shit out of her to remind her who's in charge.

The New York Times reports: "Extremist grandma spits on neighbor. Trying to work things out. Tenous situation. No end in sight. A standoff. Peace negotiators on their way. When will the fighting stop?"