I got time to tell you, but not much left.
A tired and swollen heart, a liver that never quits, a mind split or schizoid as the docs say; that’s what I got for Christmas.
I wanted to hunt quiver buffalo so that my girlfriend SADIE could make me mix tapes and Alabama breakfast. Her quill THRILLED me, and the great chase was upon us. Nothing can stop us, not even the dawn of ROBOT MAN and his robot massage oil strategies. Magic fingers in the bed? – sure pal, you’ll see it.
What the FUCK did I get for CHRISTMAS … SHAMBLES … broken promises … ominous signs and portend’ings. My CHRISTMAS SATURNALIA EVIL SANTA PARTY HQ is FULL UP on cocaine poetry, and the MASTER of CEREMONIES has not yet arrived.
Doesn’t matter what I wanted, it’s what I get.
I was ready for the ICE PRINCESS and for LUKE and LAURA to spend the DAYS of our LIVES in DALLAS … with Mr. Rogers. Rudolf, after spending CHRISTMAS EVE getting wasted, stands TALL upon the precipice of your manor as a fat old weirdo scuttles down your chimney, delivery the bounty of whiskey pain and cigarette burns. That’s what I got for Christmas too …
I chipped in with CHARLIE from Camp Easter, we served in the MEGLAMITE WARS of 2088, and then we were sent back in time for vacation and restoration. Southern whalers battling Dixie ski boats and bikini tasters stood against us at the Battle of Mooks, but the Jersey Boys won out and the RAT PACK was sent to Wyoming to fish for bear mackerel. I wanted a train for Christmas, but instead I got that and multi-dimensional genital crabs. Merry fucking Christmas … Happy fucking New YEAR.
MY GHOST WARRIORS struck GOLD a month ago, after savaging the renal-failure freaks of Quadrant-22B. They spent their monies on whores and guns and buns covered in gravy; as the night ends so ALSO their furious obedience to Dionysus and his arts. Then, when the sun rose, my house was on fire and the sky-riddles were left in faded ink. That was one helluva CHRISTMAS, wasn’t it …
WHAT DID I GET FOR CHRISTMAS?
Broken families.
Broken faith.
Brother and sister, turned against each other.
Wars, and rumors of wars.
Famines and floods.
And a distant ballad sung in the darkest way …
“A gift is coming this XMAS, for all the Roman swell … a taste of honey and Baal and Hell. A witches brew just for you, made by elves in France.”
And it has blood soaked wrapping.
And on it is written: “Happy New Year! Good luck in 2025 …”
Good luck, spoken like a curse.
