It’s Christmas and I’m full of it

I’ve decided I’ll just go ahead and give myself a discount on this year’s family shit-o-rama and I volunteered to work Christmas eve. It should be at least entertaining and slightly less dangerous than my family’s annual get together.

The place is all Christmasy and jolly in that someone fixed the flickering florescent in the dining hall and added “Merry Christmas” on the board under today’s menu, which is low fat chicken breast with yams cooked and beaten to a brownish bland death and left bleeding near a salad that no one has lived to report its true contents. So you can see how this is a great improvement for me, and it almost moves me to believe in the generous spirit of Christmas. I tried smiling at one of the nicer old ladies passing by and she shrieked and cried so hysterically they had to give her Diprivan, which is the stuff Michael Jackson took before his last nap. (I’ve tried it before. Pretty brutal stuff that). In any case, that drained the bullshit right out of my chimneys.

A bunch of old men and a fat nurse decorated a plastic tree, arguing whether the true spirit of Christmas looks better in blue or green. A skinny little Santa went around pulling medications from his stocking and handing them out like miniature last suppers and you could almost imagine him muttering “Christ died for your sins and I’m getting a buck fifty over minimum wage to do this. Who got the short end of that stick?”

I love Christmas weather though, with all the snow and the fireplace all warm and jolly, but having lived in LA all my life it remains a theoretical love, like the way I love Zooey Deschanel: She’s probably a cold little cunt, but I’d love to get in there and find out, you know?

Yeah now we’ve got some real Christmas spirit rolling. Not bad for a half Jew.

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.....

Where was I? Yes, Zooey Deschanel. God I love her. I’m sorry I called you a cunt Zooey. You know I didn’t mean it. Your eyes just make me go gaga till I don’t know what I say. Now I’m feeling sentimental. I’ll write a poem.

Your Eyes

Zooey, I love your eyes

And I don’t care if your boobs are saggy

They probably aren’t

‘Cause you’re gorgeous

Although you’re 29

And probably past menopause

But your ass looks great

Above my face

Take my word for it Zooey

I’m good for it.

Well it’s not a poem-poem, it’s a poetic scribble or something. But you’ll forgive me.

After all, it’s Christmas.

I’ll keep you posted.