November 27th, 2007

ho ho ho

All I Want For Christmas

I still have my buck-ass two front teeth, and Grand Theft Auto IV won’t be coming out until next year, so I’m willing to settle for a good night’s sleep. However, if you’re feeling generous:

- Bottles are always accepted. Thanks to an upswing in my alcoholism and a downturn in my liquor-buying habits, my home bar is direly understocked, with a mere dozen or so bottles. This leaves me reliant on old faithfuls like the martini, the Scotch and water, and the TNT, and a diverse liquor cabinet, like a diverse society, is a sign of social health.

- Uma Thurman. Note that I am not one of these fly-by-night youth fetishists who abandons his true celebrity love once a younger, hipper model rounds the corner. Uma was my imaginary girlfriend in 1988, and she will be my imaginary girlfriend in 2008.

- Comic books are always accepted, no matter how crappy.

- I realize that my suggestion that you buy me gifts is fairly ridiculous, especially since, thanks to my new office-sharing arrangement, I hardly ever post here anymore, and when I do, it’s not funny or interesting (although, let’s be honest, that’s hardly a new development). However, should you want to tack on another year or so paid subscription to this rattletrap LiveJournal, I would love you more than I love candied yams.

- I am also still raising funds for my big trip to CPAC (the Conservative Political Action Conference) this coming February in Washington, DC. There, both on my own and as a designee of Sadly, No!, I will mock right-wingers, report in the doings of wingnuts and wingnut-enablers, get my hands on lots of kook literature, have breakfast with several presidential candidates, and do my best to personally enrage Michelle Malkin. And you can help this happen by sending a couple of bucks via PayPal to leonard dot pierce at gmail dot com. It will be like giving your mind a cleansing blowjob.

And what do YOU want for Christmas, little boy/girl/self-selected gender category?
ho ho ho

Kringle the Kimmerian

“HO HO HO! And what is your name, champ?”

“Thulsa.”

“Do you have a last name, Thulsa, so Santa can find your house from the mailbox?”

“Doom.”

“Well! Er, ho ho! That should be easy to remember! How many little boys named Doom can there be on your block?”

“Just me and my cousin Vic.”

“And what do you want for Christmas, Thulsa?”

“Snakes.”

“Oh, boy! That’s a very exciting present. Are you going to make them into pets, Thulsa?”

“Pets. Children. Arrows. Meat.”

“My, my. You’re an enterprising soul. You just be careful with those, ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! Be good now! And what’s your name, little girl?”

“Sonja.”

“Look at your pretty hair, Sonja! Why, it’s as red as Santa’s suit, isn’t it? Ho ho ho!”

“Yeah, I guess. Whatever.”

“And what would you like for Christmas, Sonja?”

“A boyfriend who isn’t a total puss-cake.”

“A…a puss-cake?”

“Seriously, dude, the guys around here are all gristle, I can bust their heads like rotten squash. I want a man.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be thinking about boys, Sonja?”

“Boys is right. Fucking bunch of milk babies. Hey, what time do you get off work, there, husky?”

“Ah ha ha HO HO HO! Santa is on the up and up, everyone, get her out of here, who’s next? You there! What’s your name, son?”

“Conan.”

“Conan what?”

“Conan the Cimmewian, black-haiwed, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a weaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic miwth, to twead the jeweled thwones of Earth under my sandaled feet.”

“Well then! That’s a lot to remember. Some kids are just named Smith or Jones.”

“Fwippewies.”

“Uh…okay. Well, what would you like for Christmas, Conan?”

“Um…”

“Do you want a nice ball, so you can practice sports? It’s good to win.”

“Um…”

“How about a pet birdy? Or a nice pony? Riding along the open steppe with the wind in your hair, that sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

“Um…”

“Well, what do you want, kid?”

“To cwush my enemies, see them dwiven before me, and to hear the lamentation of the women.”

“Hmmmm. Gosh, I don’t know if that’ll fit in ol’ Santa’s bag, son.”

“How about an official Wed Wyder Cawbine-Action 200-shot Wange model air wifle?”

“You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.”

“I’ll shoot your eye out.”

“Next!”