The Toothy Nicotone-Stained Maw Of Santa Breathily Whispers
First, let me remind you: Dan O’Shea knows the truth about Santa Claus, and that truth is you never fuck with the old man. Please, go, and gaze upon Dan’s demented Christmas memories.
Second, hey, Christmas is a-coming.
This is one of the first years in a long time I’m kind of excited for Christmas, though I don’t really know why. Well, I do know why, I guess. Part of it is that we’re in a new house, and this new house will allow us to deck the place out with some goddamn motherfucking holiday cheer. I’m sorry, let me rephrase that: “some goddamn motherfucking holiday cheer, motherfuckers.” My bad. Not nearly enough profanity.
Let’s pretend I’m Santa Claus.
I have the beard.
I’m not quite as jiggly fat, and I don’t look great in red, but hey, whatever.
You’re on my lap.
No, no, I’m not going to try to have sex with you. Settle down.
This is all totally innocent.
What do you want for Christmas, little boy-slash-girl-slash-hermaphrodite?
The first person who says “peace on Earth” gets a broken Coke bottle in the neck.
Tell Santa what you want for Christmas. Feel free to be as literal or as metaphorical, as sane or completely apeshit batshit moonbat moonapebatshit as you care to be.