Christmas is coming!
The nerves are getting raw!
Please to slip a fifty in the small dog's paw!
Please to slip a fifty in the small dog's paw!
If you haven't got a fifty, then a twenty just might do;
If you haven't got a twenty—well then—hey! Fuck you!
Yesterday the Mooks woke up from their post-travel, post-hospital stupours and noticed it was ten days before Christmas and they had done nothing to prepare.
Immediately there was panic and consternation and no shortage of nattering. Mook B ended up with the task of preparing the Christmas card which in this household, as it turns out, always features the dog. As I am the dog, I was set up for a modeling session. This wasn't to hard because the "inspired artistes" who were doing the shoot had absolutely nothing original up there sleeves so I just had to lie on my back and stare at the lens. Sort of like for porn.
However, after the pictures were taken there was the not-so-small task of actually doing the cards and the task was conferred upon B, again. As you may have read, when it comes to technology B's not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree and after some weeping about pixels and centimeters and inches, A had to stick his nose in and then the fur really started to fly.
"EVERY FUCKING YEAR, YEAR IN, YEAR OUT, IT'S THE SAME FUCKING THING WITH THE CHRISTMAS CARD. YOU NEVER WRITE DOWN THE PROCESS SO THAT WE CAN JUST GET IT OVER WITH AND GET ON WITH OUR FUCKING LIVES. WHY DON'T WE JUST BUY SOME UNICEF CARDS...OR THE ONES FROM THOSE PEOPLE WHO PAINT WITH THEIR FEET! WHY—EVERY YEAR!—DO WE HAVE TO GO THROUGH THIS SAME DRAMA!"
After the diatribe, A slammed out of the house to begin the Christmas groceries which will include a turkey the size of an Irish Setter, and all the fixings. The house became positively peaceful when he left and B and I just hummed along in the bliss of silence. The card got done, but as it is not yet two days before Christmas it has not been sent to anyone.
Meanwhile, Mook A does have a few reasons to be in a pissy mood. He's on mega-antibiotics for that thing on his hand and he wakes up every morning feeling like he's been out drinking hard the night before. This morning he had two different medical appointments at two different places both before ten o'clockn and left here for them feeling wretched and retchy. If things don't get better by next week, then he will have to continue his thrice-weekly visits to the clinic during the holidays. Considering the moaning he does each time he has to go to the clinic, we won't be getting too many fucking Silent Nights around here.
The house does not smell like ginger and vanilla, yet; but for me, it's never been that way. First with Frank and now with the Mooks, come Christmas, Easter or The Feast of the Immaculate Conception, the house has always smelled like cigarettes and dog.
Mmmmmmmmmm.
Oh! TV night!
They're showing a Peanuts Special
And then there's the thing where the deer's nose is red
Long are the hours of 'toons and wretched movies
The ones with Bing make we wish I was dead.
And then there's bed and dreams of turkey dark meat
And up we get to see the bird's still cold!
Fall on your knees!
Proceed now with the blowjob!
No food! No tube!
You might as well just use the lube!
No food! No tube!
Thank God we bought so-o-o-o-o-me lube!
No comments:
Post a Comment