Every year I write to Santa and say the same thing: "All I want for Christmas is a man with a hairy ass and 'low-hanging-on-the-tree' tinseled balls," and every year I get zip, zilch, nada. I leave out the milk, cookies, cocaine, poppers and gin under the Christmas tree, but every year the old guy in the red suit, white hair and beard flies over my house and ignores me like the bitch he is. I'm willing to admit that it may have something to do with the naughty or nice thing. I'm never nice. I don't see the point of being nice. 'Nice' is for sissies and even with my girly ways, I AM NO SISSY.
Santa has been snubbing my "hairy ass" requests for decades. I think I was sixteen when I first asked Santa Claus to send me a man with a hairy ass and "low-hanging-on-the-tree" tinseled balls. I was devastated when, on Christmas morning, I woke up and found a brand new pair of Argyle socks under the tree. Socks are a poor substitute for a man with a hairy ass and "low-hanging-on-the-tree" tinseled balls. You can't eat socks. However, this year I've decided that Santa Baby can go screw himself. I don't believe in him anymore. Screw Dasher, screw Dancer, screw Prancer, screw Vixen, screw Comet, screw Cupid, screw Donner, and screw Blitzen. Screw the lot of them!
Don't get me started. Ok I've started. You would think an ageing Bear like Santa, with his nipple rings and rumored dildo collection, could easily snag me a man with a hairy ass and "low-hanging-on-the-tree" tinseled balls. But no! Apparently he can't. Apparently he can muster up toys for millions of whiny, snot-ridden kids, but he can't sniff out a furry butt crack for St. Sukie. So screw him. We're done. Personally, I don't celebrate the religious aspects of Christmas, as I find the Bible a tad fanciful for my tastes. Walking on water, turning lepers into wine, virgin births ... back then you needed a penis to get pregnant, END OF STORY. It might not fit in with the Marian fairy tales of Pope Potty and her gaggle of Vatican weirdoes, but at some point Mary was on the sticky end of some "cock and ball" action. She just was! However, I'm not a Scrooge or a Grinch when it comes to Christmas. Just because I'm a non-believer, it doesn't mean I can't enjoy the Christmas story. Two Jews schlepping across the desert to Bethlehem for the census of Quirinius, no room at the Hyatt, ya-de-ya-de-ya, choir of angels, shepherds rimming their flocks by night. It's a great story about birth, rejuvenation, and hope, and we can all be inspired by it, if we're willing to overlook the fact that it's nonsense. I especially like the Three Wise Kings who traveled from the east following a star and bearing gifts for the infant. Well, they say they were kings, but really, Frankincense, Gold and Myrrh? I think Three Wise Queens is more like it and the star they were following was Barbra Streisand. If the Three Wise Kings had been straight guys they would have gifted the baby Jesus with a Nike Vapor Strike Youth Football from Dick's Sporting Store, NASCAR tickets and a six-pack of Bud Light. I like the idea of giving gifts. I'm a bottom when it comes to gifts ... I don't give them, but I do receive them. I especially like to see the twinkle in someone's eyes when they give me something they can't afford to buy. I don't accept anything cheap. If your wallet doesn't cry when you're buying it, then I don't want it. So, on Christmas morning I'll wake up early like the excited child I am, and I'll be expecting three of you wise queens to turn up at my manger here in Cathedral City bearing gifts: a pair of triple drop earrings from Tiffany & Co. ($1,900), a ballon bleu de Cartier watch ($5,800), and a man with a hairy ass and "low-hanging-on-the-tree" tinseled balls. ... (Priceless).