Hey, and welcome to another episode of What Really Chaffs My
Nuts. The holiday season is over and a new year is here; a new year that is
sure to require a crate load of antidepressants and a Flak vest. So, it
wouldn't make much sense to write a letter to Santa now because well Christmas
is over. Actually it's not if you live in a place like my house because the
fuckin' tree is still up. See!
It's still Christmas at my place! I mean shit; I'm tired of all the
little tiny colored bulbs that twinkled in multicolored tackiness. Kidding! It
really is beautiful. It is glorious. No, but seriously it’s not anymore. Honey,
for Christ sakes please take the tree down. That said; let me get back to the
topic. I know that it’s a bit late to compose a letter to Santa, however that
said thing the fact is that is for some of us Christmas maybe the last happy
time we a good time. The last time we before the canister of used tanner begins
to destroy our nation now that he is in power. So, I figured that it might be a
good idea to write a letter to the spokesman for the season of joy to ask for a
few things that might make next Christmas happier during the clusterfuck that
will be the next four years. So with out further a due, here is my letter to
Santa.
Dear Santa,
I know that Christmas has come and gone. In fact it's the New
Year. While I know that there is basically a year before we'll go through this
whole fiasco of your seasonal employment (you're Christianity's beloved
migrant worker and slaver), I’m writing you because I have some very
unusual things that are on my want for next time. They are desires that while
strange, strange like a French a von gard film or, Shia LaBeouf, have a
purpose. So without further delay, let's begin.
Please Santa; please no more office Christmas parties. They're
just sad. It's just a bunch of cubical/retail workers who have decided to take
a night off from the rampant degeneracy of they're home life and celebrate that
with coworkers by proxy the season to be jolly. It's kinda like Rihanna
deciding she needed a break from Chris Brown, and goes out with Bobbie instead.
I mean seriously, the only thing worse than getting drunk at a work party in
general is crying while masturbating. And now that I think about it what's the
point of that? If you’re crying than why the fuck are you touching yourself? I
mean that is completely contradictory to the purpose of rubbing one out.
That has to be the epitome of shame. Well, that and an adult wearing Velcro
shoes. The only thing worse than that is office party hookups.
Office party hook ups are the most pathetic things ever. You and
a co-worker in the handicap stall pressing up against the handrails, and the
walls like two angry bulls in a bucking chute as you clumsy grope, grasp and
hump each other in the mist of impulsive passions. Thudding up against the
meddle divider and making sounds that resemble a mixture of raccoons and tired
dogs fucking you guys slip on the forever slick tiles. I mean, all bathroom
tiles, unless at your home, always resemble a cold day old French fry. It's
hard and yet somehow still oily. Office party hook ups are the dumpster fires
of trust building exercises.
Next on the list is the end of eggnog. I want you to make it
illegal to produce that destructively horrid concoction. What exactly is
that shit, by the way? Cinnamon flavored jizz? I mean is it the leftover from
Mrs. Claus' Bukkaki? Was there a lot of hair, and pointy ear pulling involved?
How about antler and jelly belly slapping? Was that part of the processes? Is
it mainly elfish spooge? Is that why it's spiced because it's mythical
baby batter? Is that what eggnog is? And Santa, exactly how much joy did you
expel from your sack? That's skeevy shit. It is. Oh, and it's not a festive
treat, it’s lactose laced with dead chicken baby gravy with the consistency of
off white lead paint.
But in all honesty eggnog is something that a bunch of frat boys
or prepubescent boys would mix together for a stupid bet. It's sickening to
think about drinking. Trying to swallow that lemon white creamy fluid that is
supposed to help ring in the mutha fuckin'' cheer actually makes my soul choke
on bile. That's not the worst of it though, Santa. That celebratory drink has
done much worse.
See, there was a real life riot that took place over fuckin'
eggnog. That's right you fat bastard, a riot over that elfish spooge of a
drink. It took place at of all places, but West Point, our nation's cream of
the crop military academy. Way back in 1826, WestPoint was still in it's
infancy, and so in an attempt raise the institution to greatness the
superintendent, Colonel Sylvanus Thayer, created a more disciplined environment.
That discipline included a ban on alcohol. However, that did go over very well
to a bunch of overworked young whippersnappers. One of those whippersnappers
was the future president of the confederate, Jefferson Davis by the way. And so
unable to accept a sober Christmas the cadets smuggled in booze in vast
quantities. I mean like a speakeasy's wet dream amount. Their stash would have
put the Omega Theta Pi from "Animal House" to shame.
The debauchery that ensued was something that could be described
as the L.A. Riots on ecstasy. The cadets had laughed, vomited, and vandalized
their barracks in a joyous drunken frenzy. It was as if they were hyperactive
toddlers who had just feasted on a birthday cake made of PCP and pixie sticks.
One cadet even went so far as to try to bust a cap in one of his superiors so
they wouldn't get in trouble. By the next day while those in the south barracks
woke with sober discipline, the hung over students from the north were
presented with the havoc they caused. Yup, fuckin' eggnog, the beverage of
choice for all ye faithful that had been the cause of the anarchy could have eighty
sixed the academy. It could have butchered the school if the staff hadn't been
savvy enough to only purse the core instigators of the uprising. So, 19 of the
cadets who were involved got the boot. That said the rebellious Dixie Rebel
sadly was not one of the fuckers that had been disgraced. If that fucker had
been booted out then the outcome of one of the most brutal American armed
conflict ever may have been very different. But no, Santa in all of your spirit
of the Holiday wisdom, you gave a free pass to the future. All that bullshit,
and all because of a disgusting drink that is supposed to some how make this
dark time of year happy. The result, we got Trump. I rest my case.
Onward.
Up next on the line up is coffee. No, wait let me be a little
more specific Starbucks. I mean let's be real Dunkin Donuts is all right, well
no. I mean they choose John Goodman to be their spokesman. If America runs on
Dunkin' then it's running on a clogged aorta. Now Starbucks on the other hand
is freakin' sweet, with one exception, gentrification. Yes, that's right there
are times where the menu appears to be a man bun away from an episode of Girls.
If not the menu then the orders and requests sure do. I mean Cappuccinos,
Americanos, Lattes, Flat Whites, and Frappuccino are
awesome. I mean, like freakin' sweet killer kick ass. That said, when you order
a drink that's half whip, half caffeinated, half not, half mocha, and half not,
topped with Carmel drizzle there's a problem. In other words Starbucks can at
times look like a Lumber sexual has jizzed all over the menu. I’m just saying.
Check it out, and get back to me.
Seriously Santa I be good all this shit eating year if you will change
those things. Seriously, you jolly fat bastard, think about it. And now here is
a poem by a friend of mine, Matthew Claffee. Enjoy.
I know I should have did this wayback when
but it's ok because I still have some ink in
this 2016 pen
So Santa clause this ones for you and I hope
you hear it
maybe next year you give away some of that
Christmas spirit
'Cause holidays are the worst days and that's
when you feel the pain like its the first day
Damn right that's life I live
That's what I see through the scope of my lens
now it's time to put it on wax with this
P-E-N.
And then,
it's time to spread some Christmas cheer, it's
2017 the bud life year
so to infinity and beyond I go, to find the
head hancho, and as far as I know, my mom had the freshest Tahoe and always
watched out for potholes, threestyles went to Santiago, and my motto ,comes
from Toronto " do right and kill everything "
It's Christmas all over again and four little
feet on the ground, running around to see what Santa brought to town.
Mommy and daddy look like clowns but they don't
care
Cause they found out a long time ago life ain't
fair
So here come the iPhones taking videos that'll
last a life time
I guess it's really true stories come alive at
the night time
and that's something I can freak wit', cause
those 4 little feet are too small not to not have any holiday spirit
So Santa if you ring those jingle bells I'm
pretty sure I'll hear it.
So until the next rash,
Lou Ford
FIN
