By Craig P. Dixon, southcoast247.com correspondent Social Commentary 90
December 19th, 2006
Have you ever been to a holiday party that just didn’t seem right? Perhaps
the gang of skinheads chugging Jack Daniel’s in the corner put a damper on
the spirit of the season. Or you caught a glimpse of octogenarians making
out under the mistletoe. Maybe Santa had some hardened holiday spirit
waiting when you sat on his lap?
Well, if you were at the holiday party thrown this weekend by my biographer,
Dr. Larry Centers, those ideas paled in comparison.
Larry had compiled a diverse guest list of movie stars, drug dealers, pimps,
strippers, prostitutes, writers, politicians… Anyone and everyone you can
think of was on that invite list. Doesn’t mean everyone showed up, but hey…
Larry tried.
The party was at full mast when I arrived at Dixon Manor after work. I tried
the door, but it was deadbolted. I rang the bell.
Larry appeared, wearing my robe and one of those cheesy mistletoe hats.
“Dude,” he laughed. “I thought you were the fuzz. You here for the party,
man?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Larry? What party?”
“The holiday party, bro. The one we were talking about….”
“Talking about when? What the fuck’s the matter with you, Larry? You fall
off the wagon?”
“You could say that. Listen. Here’s a beer.” Larry handed me his half drunk
Sam Adams. Sam Adams taken from my supply. The damned slit-eyed criminal had
stolen my beer. “Drink that. Make yourself at home.”
“Larry, this is my home. Who said you could drink my Sam Adams?”
“You did. Come on. Let me show you around the place.”
I followed Larry. Immediately we encountered some sick orgy. Reindeer were
having at the elves. Someone was using a lit menorah to drip wax on Frosty
the Snowman’s back. It appeared the three wise men were in a queue to the
Virgin Mary, currently busy with the Grinch. And, in the center of it all,
Santa making out with Jesus under the mistletoe.
“What the fuck is going on here, Larry? A GODDAMNED ORGY? This is my house,
man! My house! Come here, you fat punk! I’m going to hang and disembowel
you, you Judas!”
I grabbed the coked out bastard by his greasy hair. He attempted to run, but
I slammed him to the floor.
“AAAAIIIEEEEEEEEE!” He screamed.
“I’m going to decorate the tree with your intes-tynes, my stupid friend.
Orgies? In my house? Are you trying to ruin….”
“Now Craig, why are you doing that? That’s not very nice. You’ll be getting
coal this year.”
The voice came from far above me. It was Santa. THAT Santa. The same bastard
who’d castrated me the year before.
“You…,” I released Larry’s hair. He fled to the reindeer. “You son of a
bitch….”
“We’ve had our differences, Craig. But shouldn’t we let bygones be? It’s the
spirit of the season, after all. Here, I even brought you a present.”
“What?!?” Santa handed me a large, rectangular box, wrapped and topped with
a green bow. “Is it the Nintendo 64 you ‘forgot’ to bring me so many years
ago?”
I tore through the paper. The box was made of cedar, with a clasp on the
front.
“What the hell? Is this some kind of joke?”
“Open it, Craig. You’ll want to.”
I unlocked the clasp and, trembling, opened the box. Inside was what
appeared to be a fluid-filled mason jar resting comfortably in crimson
velvet. The jar was warm, and immediately familiar. I shook it gently, and
noticed two orbs floating in the fluid.
They were glowing.
“My balls.”
“Yes, your balls. I thought you’d been emasculated enough this year and
deserved them back.”
“But will they…?”
“Oh, they’ll work. They’ve been little more than a paperweight for the past
year. I’ve a surgeon who’ll reconnect them for you.”
“Well, thanks, Santa.”
“Ho ho ho, don’t thank me. Those balls get you in far more trouble when
they’re connected. I’m hoping they’ll be your downfall.”
“Well, thanks again. I guess.”
“Now stop being such an uptight little Grinch. Have some wine, get some ass,
and enjoy the damned party.”
Happy Holidays, jerks. The Darfur edition comes out next week.
Have you ever been to a holiday party that just didn’t seem right? Perhaps
the gang of skinheads chugging Jack Daniel’s in the corner put a damper on
the spirit of the season. Or you caught a glimpse of octogenarians making
out under the mistletoe. Maybe Santa had some hardened holiday spirit
waiting when you sat on his lap?
