The holiday season is when we allow an elderly man that lives as a recluse to break into our homes. I dare anyone to look at these two iterations of Santa and wonder who wouldn’t feel totally terrified of this man? So much red. Redrum.
the holiday horror show that are these depictions of Santa at the medical supply store near my old apartment. Make sure you’re healthy before Santa attacks you and forever haunts your nightmares.
It doesn’t help that every year that my friends and I get photographed with Santa he somehow finds a way to inappropriately touch me (see). Leading to this joyful Christmas joke:
Hilarious.
Which is why it makes total sense that my beloved, and miserable, cat George decided that Christmas was the perfect time to die. He had no time for candy canes, or laughing babies, or the inappropriate sexual advances of Santa. “Fuck it,” he thought. “I’m just going to die instead.”
I feel ya, George
Though there are always bright spots, like this Vonnegut fan at the local Wawa giving all customers this Christmas miracle.
Is that the star that the Wise Men followed?
And of course there is also when your friend knows you so well that she makes you into a Christmas .gif depicting you as a cheerful Christmas elf that you so truly are. Or at least you drinking.
Drinking till the New Year.
Glad that you’ve all survived the holiday season. I’ll see you in the New Year where we can start our plan to kill Santa.
“Janie, how do you face life with such ebullient enthusiasm?” an imaginary person that I created for this scenario once asked me.
“Well, imaginary friend, I think the most important thing about life is approaching the day to day mundanities with jolliness and good cheer so you can see the sanctity that exists in every single moment,” I responded beatifically.
But I guess I could have just cut to the real meat of that sentence by showing the imaginary friend my beverage that I bring throughout the streets of Philadelphia:
this is an option on their secret menu
Dunkin Donuts cups always hide the secret terror within
I am an old person today. And to remind me where my priorities have laid for the last many years, my best friend emailed me to remind me about friendship and love:
Ahh yes, it’s you my old friend
And again, see you later on tonight Jack Daniel’s.
I only own one kitchen appliance. It’s a skillet. It’s made of iron. It’s so large that it could cook me.
leg of lady is on the menu when I’m cookin’, Jack.
The only reason I haven’t thrown it away is because I am sure it could double as a weapon.
But on a rare occasion when my supper isn’t cold pizza with several Yuenglings and a couple ounces of hot sauce, I’ve been known to try and cook rice in that sucker.
But I was steaming the rice with an old VHS organizer
The end of the rice story is that the faux-wood ended up peeling off into the rice and the chemicals mixed with the grains to create a cloud in my kitchen that might have been a noxious and poisonous gas.
But at the end of the day I can still use that skillet to ward off intruders.
Oh hey! There was hurricane throughout the East Coast from Sunday to Tuesday of last week. Did you hear about this? Gotta tell you, I ignored every single news report of it because my evil Canadian overlord (see: my job) almost assuredly wouldn’t close. I prepared for the hurricane as the best little You Life I could be. I went to the dollar store and got the essentials:
cat food – look at how fucking terrified that cat is, also 30% protein? Amazing. Cat litter – for cartoon animals
And diet coke.
Sunday night I was lounging when I got a call that indicated that the East Coast was going to fall into the ocean: my office was closed. Perhaps I should have purchased a candle? Nope – let the rains come.
The beginning of the hurricane stay-vaction
On Monday I woke up to a gray sky, but nothing that indicated to me that the gods’ were wrathful. After waking up, going back to sleep, waking up again, and then trying to make a cup of coffee from an espresso machine that I forgot I stole from a cunty ex-roommate I was up. Starving. Bored.
So I assessed the following two things: the secret reserves in the apartment
This is for the end times. The secret storage of candy, syrup, and strawberry fluff
And how it looked outside:
Let’s be frank. There is only so much reading, movie watching, hobby-doing, and masturbating that a person can do in one day. At around two I had enough. I left the apartment to walk to get food. Nothing was open. So then, I did what any adult would do.
I went to see how terrifying the playground was during the hurricane
Shortly after going on the swings a police officer drove by and gave me a very stern tongue lashing pertaining to the idiocy of wandering around during a storm.
Returned home.
Sent this text message to my best friend after the lights started flickering:
“I better not have to wank off by candle light” (it would be like jerking off during Little House of the Prairie times. I want to crank it with all of the modern amenities).
Hunger took over. So I did what I needed to do…
I defrosted the chocolate bunnies from Easter, seven months earlier, and covered them in Cupcake magic shell for dinner
Sadness. Utter sadness.
Finally a friend without power came over with the barest of cooking supplies (defrosted chicken thighs, a mini pan, rice, and rum). Seeing as how I don’t own any of the following: cooking oil, a pot, utensils, or a pan it was going to be a trial to cook both the chicken and rice. But, since I am a bit of a fucking wizard I made an entire meal using the smallest frying pan known to man and an iron skillet that was so large that it could have cooked me. I steamed the rice in the skillet with a pizza box. INDUSTRIOUSNESS.
While cooking this a Queen song played in the background. What is covering the bitty frying pan? A metal pizza “stone” …rust side up.
Tuesday:
Tried to sleep in. With great success
Played SNES for hours
In the battle for Kirby dominance I told Happy Brother Senior to eat an entire bag of dicks and finished the victor.
And then it all de-evolved after the second entire day without leaving the apartment. It de-evolved into me creating this “mojito” mix that I think was a code for rat poison. It called to fill a plastic bucket with warm water, this neon green powder, and rum. Later on that day I could be found amongst the piles of VHS tapes in my apartment, eating the slushy poison out of a bucket, dancing to the last song from the credits in Legend.
No seriously, Tangerine Dream is fucking out of this world amazing.
And that is how I survived.
Because I was fine. And my love was strong enough.
Hearts, and flowers, and posi vibes to those not as ridiculously fortunate as me.
It should come as no surprise, give my penchant for Napoleon complex like antics, that I am short. Super short. Really fucking small.
five foot shawty assassin
And when you are this damn small, with a habit to get into so much trouble, it’s essential that you learn how to defend yourself when the going gets hostile. My method, since childhood, has been emulation of the moves of professional wrestlers.
I’ve been to two professional wrestling events since my childhood – I wish this was a joke, but that is a Bret Hart shirt from the Holiday Hell Tour in the early 90s. Eat it hipsters and long for my un-ironic ironic WWF swag
So, if you are feeling, say, threatened on your birthday, what should you do? Um…the Million Dollar Dream. Obviously. And you should do this after drinking several pints of home brew outside of bar- unwashed, following a Kool & the Gang sing-a-long.
Get your back up off the wall, do wrestling moves, come on!
You life is not so great 