Monday, December 29, 2014

Songs Your Mother Taught Us: Looking for Advice

Jerry Seinfeld's Best Material

So like what's the deal with airplane food? It's like, really bad. So bad, I don't even want to eat it. Here, neighbor, take my airplane food. See if you can find something to do with it.

Have you ever been to the doctor? Of course you have. Why do they make you wait in that room with all those sick people? It's crazy. Then they call your name and you have to wait in another room, this time by yourself. Why can't you just start off in the second waiting room? I dunno.

There are all kinds of rules regarding breakups. Have you been on seven dates? Well then you have to breakup with that person in person. I know, what a pain. Society demands it, though. We must follow the rules of society.

Sometimes I think I live in the bizarro world, just like in Superman. There's bizarro Jerry, which is me. Somewhere out there there's the real Jerry, doing logical things. Maybe his jokes have more flow than mine. Maybe he's not successful. Maybe he lives in the sewer.

What's the deal with tipping? You mean I have to pay more than what's on my bill? How did tipping become a social institution? How did we get to this point? Why can't we just pay waiters what they're worth? There's a fundamental dishonesty in the relationship between waiter and waitee. It's something we as a society need to work on. I'd put it right up there with global warming.

Do you ever think that maybe aliens are watching us? They're sitting in their spaceships with their feet up on the coffee table, drinking alien coffee, watching us bumble around on their alien televisions. To them, we're all comedians. Maybe that's the great irony. If we're all comedians, what am I, chopped liver? Do I stop being superman or bizzarro superman and become Jimmy Olsen? Hey, I guess that's better than being Krypto the superdog.

What's the deal with jokes? I mean, how do they work? Can you tell me why a joke is funny? Because I'd really like to know. Seriously. I'm an alien in a meat suit, and I've been trying to understand why people find me funny for the last thirty years, and for the life of me, I can't figure it out. If you know, please tell me so I can end my mission on earth. All these pithy observations are the result of a profound incomprehension of the way humanity lives. Someone save me.

And tell me, what's the deal with airplane food? Please tell me. ASAP.

Friday, December 26, 2014

The Post-Holiday Blues

Christmas is over. You got some of the things that you wanted. The mingling with the relatives has ceased. The feasting is finished, unless you count eating dried turkey leftovers feasting. Welcome to reality, asshole. Get back to the grind.

You try to postpone it as long as you can. You wear a Santa hat to work until your boss tells you to quit being an asshole and take it off. On the way to work you listen to Christmas music until you realized that if you hear Paul McCartney sing one more time about simply having a wonderful Christmas time, you're going to lose your shit. Fuck you, Sir Paul. Thanks for breaking up the Beatles. Of course, it's not fair to blame Paul for all that, but the holiday spirit is still lingering in your heart, and sometimes, we lash out during the holidays, when we realize this idealized time is but a sliver of our actual lives. You can't live on candy canes forever, buddy.

But still, you resist. The Christmas tree stays up till March. You keep the lights on the house till July. You start planning next Christmas. You keep wrapping paper in the closet, where it's close and handy.

Eventually you start seeing things. Elves crawling the walls. You hear the labor of their workshop, the pounding of their hammers. Outside, silhouette shapes crawl, some surrealist's impression of reindeer. You put on considerable weight. Your beard starts to grow shaggy and unkempt. People pass you in the street, and you mumble "Ho ho ho," under your breath.

"Jesus," you say, your voice a bassetto rumble. "Where's the holiday spirit?" You ask random people this question, and you run after them when they try to escape. The police apprehend you after you assault a women for not wearing enough red. Somehow, you escape your bonds. They search and search for you, but nothing is found.

You retreat to the Arctic, feeding off of the flesh of seals. You make your home out of the bones of whales, the beasts of the tundra your only friends. When they come from the ice, whispering demon dreams of progress, you let them in and put them to work. They make marvelous contraptions, complexities no human hand could forge. They make you their chief, their saint. You dress yourself in shaggy robes of red. You've become enormous. Your bulk threatens to devour every room you enter.

Congratulations, you are Santa Claus. What will you do with your power? Only you can decide.

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Poem: Chicago

Wrote this years ago, and just rediscovered it. Merry Christmas.

Part One
The bodies bump and tussle in the night
Slick with youth's yawning focused poet's love
Sharp like a fresh wound that time will soon heal
The non-voyeur buries his skull in deep sand
Searching for an answer quick and easy
Midnight is long past, yet day is remembered
The orange sky autumn's lovely tragedy
Halloween christening my child's heart
Romancing in the mind and lonely hand
Beset by meager slivers of souls
Sweet of breast and soft of throat but doe-eyed
Why should a beggar get to choose?
Who has crowned him king and judge?
Righteous and worthy are we in our eyes
Never afraid of bustling crowds
Never lacking in charisma or character
Never cloaked in silhouette and subway grime
Never making dangerous eyes out of steamy windows
Never shying from the mutant glow of the street lights
But always passing hours in derelict hideaways
Always lingering at blue notes ripe with jazz
Always pushing past the mangy harlequins on Addison
Always leaning in a corner with no way out

Part Two
Yet hope was handed to me by trembling strings
Stretched out across waving amber expanses
I shook slender hand and bid her come
Well-met we were at Navy Pier
Walking shoulder to shoulder along the Rhineland
Fertile with jagged glass and cigarette butts
Smiled we did at life's eccentricities
I played the gentle heart's part with abandon
Watery-eyed and mistletoed, murmuring and glancing
Beholding waifs with windy worried expressions
Kissed by a bubbling insatiate thirst
The city noise was a chorus song sung sweet
Beneath the citadels gothic and zebra-striped
I left the smoldering wreck of my foundation
Retreated I did to sit at Ignatius' noble feet
Long-thought solitude bestowed upon me once more
There I sowed a saccharine construction
When snow began to fall, I went for the El train
My hands were cupped as we passed the boneyard
Strewn with dilapidated hulks ravaged and decimated
So soon would there be light
When Helios warmed my reptile blood
My choice had been made

Part Three
The train station looms ahead, vast and empty
Electric blues spark, cackle, and move ahead
Yet one remains entrenched in murky recesses
Staring downward at a sticky concrete floor:
A vaudeville theater and a gout-stricken man
An angular oddball with a penchant for polish sausage
Two Russians with bulbous eyes and a lisping delivery
They speak of European girls and communist fatalities
Ivy-grown stone under neighborhood villas
The crack of Kentucky wood hammering a homerun
Crowds draining from the coliseum and into the bar-filled streets
Stacked with memorabilia of beloved losers
That time in Chinatown, searching for the golden pig
Finding plastic toys and foreign language comic books
Paying for over-priced, salted-down chow mein.
He rode the El downtown in the twilight
Red lines streaking past tenement houses cold and drafty
Mexicans living Spanish in front of the whole wide world
Water lapping against the lonesome pier, beneath the moon
Jogging between suits and spiked-hair and bums
Fat, fetid, and filthy, eating trash, pillaging cans
Under the bridge beneath the Tower of Babel, a deserted night-town
This was my playground and I shall miss it.  

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Hillsdale Paranormal Society: Keeping Away the Krampus

Yeah, he looks all bad-ass, but he's really a child molester.

Christmas is a time for exchanging your favorite Marky-Mark movies and snuggling up next to your best hood rat. Unfortunately, there exists assholes in this world who would seek to ruin that shit for ya'll, and one of the biggest is the Krampus. The Krampus is a demon who follows Santa Claus around like a loser bro, stealing children and generally making an asshole of himself. He ain't supposed to be around kids, if you know what I'm saying, although the many attempts to prosecute him have basically gone nowhere, since Hell has a crack legal team, both living and dead. Now, a lot of folks don't believe in the Krampus, which I can't blame them. He doesn't appear that much, and only seeks to capture the worst kids. He picks and chooses his targets, is what I'm saying. So if little Billy has been really bad this year, working on a rap sheet to rival 50 Cent, well, if you want to keep his ass, you better perform some preparations so that he don't end up in the basket of an eight-foot tall goat demon.

First things first: seal all the entrances to your home before Christmas Eve. That means nailing windows shut, barring doors, covering chimneys. Put little Billy in a dog cage if you have to, but just make sure that thing's got a good lock on it, though I hear the Krampus usually carries a pair of bolt cutters 'cause he's that kind of bro. That shit should be locked up tighter than an upside girl's cooch. Make the place a fortress, at least for one night. Then little Billy can go back to being a fucker.

Second, get yourself a loaded weapon, preferably something heavy-caliber. The Krampus may be an eternal goat-demon, but he still feels pain, and a .50 caliber slug in his ass will certainly make him less-liable to go kidnapping little Billy. Shoot the dude in the groin to really get him moving--that shit takes forever to grow back, and it'll put in end to his Christmas festivities, the fucking perv. For extra effect, have a priest bless your firearm. If you're Jewish, have a rabbi, since they still count, Trent claims.

Thirdly, have several big-ass cats, all mean as shit. Cats hate demons, since demons smell like giant rats, and many a Christmas kidnapping has been foiled by a crazy old cat lady's brood. Get like five or six tom cats, and I guarantee little Billy will see another year.

Fourthly, you can always call your local paranormal society. If they're anywhere as competent as me and my boys, you'll be in good hands. We charge competitive rates, but we guarantee results. Keep that in mind, jabronis.

Fifthly, have a Merry Christmas, motherfuckers! Drink that egg nog and groove to the beats of the funky bunch like God intended. Peace, yo.

Saturday, December 20, 2014

A Christmas Story: The Death of Horace

Horace was a bad bear. He was made entirely out of gummi, and he was given to a man who ate bear flesh. A group of bears is called a sleuth, did you know? This is Horace's story.

Here Horace is, his figure still intact. I gnawed most of his head off. He was delicious.

In this photograph, I have used a bread knife to saw off most of Horace's head. His cranium is holding on by a thin strand. How grotesque!

As required by the ritual, Horace has been decapitated. I shall place this head on my ramparts as a warning to any travelers.

I am not uncivilized, however. Note the care I have taken to carve Horace's flesh into nice, ragged chunks for ease of consumption.

I find gummi bear goes best with a soft red wine, as the flavors compliment each other.

Yet in the end I could not restrain my hunger.

Rest easy, Horace. I shall use every part of you, like the Indians and the buffalo.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

How to Overcome Writer's Block

You've been sweating it out behind the desk, smoking pack after pack of cigarettes, drinking like Hemingway, typing the same sentence over and over again like you're in The Shining. Your dream of becoming a successful writer is being held back by your lack of imagination. Here's a handy dandy guide to getting back on track.

1. Start drinking/smoking/abusing substances more. Every great writer was a drunk. The aforementioned Hemingway, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald. David Foster Wallace was addicted to marijuana, somehow. So start slamming back some brews and start typing what comes to mind. If it's nonsense, so what? You've written something. Congratulations.

2. Read more. Doesn't matter what. Cookbooks, advertisements, subway scrawl. It's all relevant and part of the human condition. If an actual novel sneaks its way in there, all the better. I personally become inspired by reading Glamor and Cosmopolitan. Such periodicals really hammer home the banality of existence.

3. Let Yourself Go. This kind of goes with number one. Grow out your beard, stop shaving your legs. Dress in antiquated clothing, but make sure it's filthy and stinking like the clothes of a homeless person. Fart in public. When someone offers you their hand, spit in it. Stop brushing your teeth. Gargle with mayonnaise.

4. Embrace the Occult/Scientology/Black Jesus. You need to believe in something if you're going to be a writer. The crazier the better. A writer is a spewer of bullshit. A writer is a true believer. A writer is one step away from becoming a politician.

5. Put It All Together. The disparate parts of your life, the pieces that don't seem to fit, stick them together with duct tape. Some bastard cut you off in traffic? Murder him in your horror novel. Tired of the predictable banter of your average sitcom? Write a subversive riff on the genre.

6. Start a Blog. No one will read it, but who cares? The blog serves as a sketch pad, an arena for doodling. Art must be presented to other people to be consider art, according to a professor I once had. He was a dwarf with a speech impediment who wrote about Hitler's mustache in his poems.

7. Just Do It. Life is a Nike commercial. 

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

The Krampus Speaks Out

It's that time of year again when I dust off the ol' child kidnapping sack and start spreading holiday cheer. I've been busy lately--children seem to be getting badder and badder--and who else is going to drag their little souls down to hell? Not Saint Nick, I'll tell you. Well, let me let you all in on a little secret--Santa doesn't like kids anymore than I do. We simply perform our delegated tasks and keep our prejudices to ourselves. Maybe I would like to be the gift-giver one year. I dunno. Could be nice, though it would take a substantial makeover for me to not look terrifyingly demonic. Trim the horns, cover my hooves, hide the tail. Keep my tongue in my mouth. All that sounds like a big hassle. Nope, I'll stick to my job, and Santa can stick to his. I have no problem being the bad guy.

But, and this is a big but, could somebody leave some cookies or something out for me? Santa doesn't need anymore, I'll tell you that. The guy's pushing three-bills, and he's like what, five-nine? Why's everybody feeding him cookies? Are you all trying to give him a heart attack? I on the other hand am a very fit 190. Almost shredded, in fact. If I shave the hair on my stomach, you can see my abs. I have a very demanding fitness regimen. Just joined a Crossfit in fact. A couple cookies won't hurt me. Maybe I'd spare one of your brats if a few chocolate chip cookies were left out for the Krampus. Certainly wouldn't hurt, right? Do what you want, though.

The holidays are a difficult time for single people, myself in particular. It's always hard to keep a girlfriend when she finds out what I do for a living. I try to explain that somebody has to do it; why not me? Somebody has to take out the garbage. Somebody cleans the sewers. It's kind of snobbish to break up with somebody because of their work. I've done other things during my life. This is just what I'm doing now. I don't consider this to be a permanent position, despite the fact that I've been doing it for over four-hundred years. Let it be known that I'm working towards a promotion, and a big pay day is coming. Hell takes care of its own. You could be dating the future CEO of Walmart. Just keep that in mind, potential Mrs. Krampus.

Have a great Christmas, everyone. Children, watch out for the Krampus. Oh, just so parents know, my position affords me a certain moral flexibility. If you want me to take a particular kid, leave a note and three-hundred dollars under their pillow. Hell is very cool about bribes. Just a heads up.

Friday, December 12, 2014

A Brief Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I want a toothbrush for Christmas. It has to have a green handle. I like soft bristles, not hard ones, because hard bristles strip the ivory from my teeth, and I want to be able to sell my teeth eventually. The black market on ivory is hot. My wife tells me that I am not an elephant.

I also would like a nine-millimeter Glock so that I can shoot all the birds in my yard. They are spies sent from the fairy land, and I'll be damned if I let them fly back and tell all of those poofters what I'm doing. This is America, goddamnit. There are laws against stuff like this. Please also include plenty of ammunition, in case there's anything else I'd like to shoot.

It would be nice to receive a dog that does not bark. My current model does nothing but bark, and sometimes he says horrible things. He is a very bad pervert dog. He smells like rotten eggs and he will eat anything, and I mean anything. I once removed an intact rubber glove from his stool. His digestive system must be a straight shot. Please replace him at once.

A copy of E.T. The Extraterrestrial would be a nice stocking stuffer. It is a classic film about a little girl's friendship with a disfigured homeless man. The government comes to break it up because it turns out that the homeless man is a child predator. They shoot him and push his bicycle into the lake and it's a happy ending.

I am eating eggs right now that are so burnt that I believe I am consuming blackness. For Christmas, I would like to learn how to cook.

P.S. Please do not come down the chimney because my evil dog will attack you, and the last thing I need is another law suit. Thank you, Santa, for everything you do. You are a magical person.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Hey, Like, Call Me, Maybe

I just met you. You seem like a nice person. You have all the attributes I usually look for in a mate. You smell like evergreen, like I'm walking through a forest or just spilled a bottle of gin on myself. It's a fine smell, though. I could get used to it, is what I'm implying. And you have such nice teeth. Do you brush them often? Use whitener? You're telling me they're natural? Wow. I'll have you know that I often pick my mate based solely on the condition of his teeth. You're racking up the points here, bud. The fact that you're wearing clothes closes the deal. I like you. You are special.

This is crazy. I mean, I like never do this. I just met you, you know? For all I know you could be a serial killer. Or I could be one. But how much you trust random people says a lot about what kind of person you are. I'd rather be gullible and fun-loving than a paranoid shut-in. The mathematical odds suggest that you and I are not, in fact, serial killers. However, the odds are much higher that you could take advantage of me during a date. So you see what I mean when I say that this is crazy?

But here's my number. All ten digits. Treasure this number, for I never do this, because it's crazy. Call me only between three and four a.m. on weekdays when Jupiter is visible in the sky. I keep strange hours, okay? Unfortunately I can't tell you about my work. I'll have you know that it is ordained by God himself. That's right, the big man. Or woman. Or genderless entity, which is probably the case. Someone has to hunt the vampires. I'm sorry, what did I say?

Call me, okay? I don't want to sound desperate, but the last couple guys I gave my number out to never did. Maybe they found my instructions bizarre; maybe I misjudged the connection between myself and them. Maybe back alleys behind deserted buildings aren't the best place to give your number, but whatever. I'm beyond society's rules, I'll have you know. I do what I want.

Maybe call me. I may have come off just a little too desperate. I have plenty of suitors. Handsome men. Men with all ten fingers. Men who aren't vampires. Like, if you think you're looking good, then, yeah, try your luck. Call me. Maybe.

Monday, December 8, 2014

Conan Brothers Q&A

Arnold: So Dave, I got a screaming headache behind my left eye. Feels like there's a ton of pressure behind there. I think it may be a tumor.

Dave: Anything's possible.

Arnold: So if my replies to some of these queries are a little off, keep that in mind.

Dave: I'm sure no one will notice.

AnkleBiter69 asks "What's the deal with box squats? Are they any good? The only guys I see using them squat nowhere close to parallel."

Arnold: I like touch and go box squats. I don't know about sitting your ass down and getting back up box squats like the Westside guys do."

Dave: Those guys don't squat anywhere close to parallel. I mean, they're strong, obviously, but you can't really claim a 1000 pound squat when you're three inches high.

Arnold: You're just jealous.

Dave: I don't really give a shit.

Arnold: Touch and go box squats help me minimize my lateral hip shift, which is a tendency to favor one side while squatting. I squat very wide, probably slightly above parallel. When I squat without the box, I use a closer stance and I go much deeper. There's a carryover. It's almost like a paused squat.

Dave: Arnold likes them. I don't know.

FuckdaPolice asks "What's up with all the cops killing black guys?"

Dave: Why are you asking us this?

Arnold: We're authorities on everything, Dave. And the answer's obvious. Cops hate black people.

Dave: Cops are stupid. It's a shitty job, with shitty pay. Doesn't exactly attract the right people.

Arnold: Hey, don't go stereotyping. I used to know a cop who wouldn't give me a ticket when I was high and drunk while driving.

Dave: What a great guy.

Arnold: I'm just waiting for our fascist overlords to cut the bullshit and fully implement a police state.

Dave: Aren't we all?

Arnold: Then we can use our guns. America, fuck yeah!

                                                          Dude looks like Porky Pig.

ImFollowingNotStalking asks "How do I get a girlfriend? I don't got game."

Dave: Wear belly shirts, have huge muscles, and take shit from no one.

Arnold: Farting and pissing your pants works also. At least, it attracts the kind of women I like.

Dave: Who proceed to fart and piss all over Arnold.

Arnold: The bedroom is a goddamn warzone, Dave. It's all about who survives.

Dave: And that's enough for this week. 

Friday, December 5, 2014

Poetry Time: He's an Animal

He was burnt out before he’d even spoken
Blasphemed with China doll tokens
Rotten straight to his coward’s core
Corrupted by visions of whores
Of golden women with sun-burnt skin
Ivory teeth and manicured fins
Sharks encircling a wounded seal
Its pathetic cries an easy meal
But they tangled with the wrong mammal
Warm-blooded not helpless this animal
The weakest man has often the least
To lose is a win if you kill the beast
And he doesn’t want their pretty dresses
Their shiny rings, their makeup messes
The accessories stuck in their hair
Their weak conversation, their vapid airs
He wants to kiss their greedy mouths
And suck the spoiled child out
He wants to leave them cold and bare
Begging for his warmth, his hair
And when he’s done they’ll see him smile
Drained of lust but full of guile
Overbearing is the hand of man
Stained and calloused, closed, not open
He’s an animal
He's an animal
He's an animal
He's an animal

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Hanging with the Goon

Howdy ya'll and happy Thanksgivings! Wat a wonderfull time of tha years. It was a night to remembr at da Goon household. All of my brothras was there--Slack, Willy, Slick, Remus--as well as Uncle Thom, who provided da turkey, which he deep-fried an stuffed with chocolate. We all gathered 'round tha pick'n'ick table an had ourselves one delicieous feast. Slack picked some taters from da garden, an' Willy made an apple pie, or least he said he did, but I think he bought it from IGA. It was 'bout thirty degrees outside, but we made a big fire outta ravioli cans, toiletries, and rotten tires. Boy it smeelled alright! All da coons from da woods came an gathered 'round da fire an started howlin' in dere little coon voices, an Uncle Thom had ta get his shotgun to silence a few of dem permenantly. Den we had ourselves fried coon, which is a tasty treat, lemme tell ya. After feastin', we all rolled 'round on the da ground like heffers loaded wit caves. I fell a sleep for a bit, an had a wierd dream where i was stuck on an island surrounded by waters, an dere was a big squid underneath my island, an he kept lookin' at me wit his giant eye! Damn it was scary. I woke up to Uncle Thom pissin' on da fire and screamin' bout da police, which sent me a running fere da hills, though I figured it out later dat Thom was just havin' one of his walkin' night terrors. In da morn, we had to fight off a pack of coyotes who was scavengin' da turkey carcass. Willy brained one wit an oak branch, an dat sent 'em scurring off. All in all, it was a fine time, an one of da better thanksgivings we had, since da cops didn't come an nobody got arrested.

Well folks, I ain't makin' a whole lotta money right now, considerin' it's winter time, an we've bout sold all da apples at da apple orcherd. Ol' Sammy is in a righteous mood, an wanderin' round all da time like he don't know wat ta do. It's too early ta prune, an we don't got nothing ta do but stack crates an make apple cider. Hernando always takes some an ferments it real goode, an then he and I drink it in da barn while Sammy runs round callin' fere us. We get pretty ripped. One time I saw Jesus comin' down from da clouds, an Hernando saw him too. He said we was no good sonsabitches, which I thought wasn't very Christain of 'em. We don't drink quite as much cider anymore. I fell down through da loft just yester, an sprained my ankle, an now I'm a dragging my foot 'round like a cripple. Thank goodness it was just thanksgiving. Otherwise, I wouldn't have no magic turkey bones to chew on to get me better.

Monday, December 1, 2014

It's Beginning to Feel a lot like Christmas

Well hello there, children. You all seem to have awakened Santa from his slumbers in the back alley outside of Kmart. I guess you're all wondering where Santa's pants have gone. It's a goddamn mystery. If someone could find them, I'd appreciate it. That little boy or girl will get whatever they want for Christmas, or at least whatever's left in this bottle of Jameson. Boy, Santa feel like he got run over by a reindeer, boys and girls. There are thirty-thousand elves knocking around in his head.

Oh Christ, I'm missing my wallet. Anybody see my wallet? Did the goddamn rats run off with it again? I tell ya, there are rats the size of golden retrievers in this alley. I pop out here from time to time to take a load off, and I see them crawling the walls. One time I kicked them away from something they were gnawing on, and it was a man's hand. Shit, I think they may have been about to go to work on Santa when you little guys got here. I got bite marks all over my legs. I'm going to have to get a rabies shot.

Hey there Jimmy or Timmy or whatever the fuck your name is, do you think you could run in and smuggle out Santa a six pack? Maybe just hide it in your sweater? Nobody's gonna frisk a kid. You could be in and out in a minute, tops. Santa feels like hanging out here for a little while longer. Santa's not ready to go back to work. Or just ask Janice the elf to buy Santa another beer. She's the elf with the cigarette hanging out of her mouth. The one with yellow teeth. Hey, Santa gets it where he can these days. He ain't too particular, if you know what I'm saying.

By the way, where the hell are all of your parents? Why are there ten kids hanging out in an alley talking to a mall Santa? What are you guys, the Little Rascals? The Scooby gang? You sure as hell don't talk much like regular kids. In fact, you all look a little weird to Santa, and that's not his beer goggles talking.

What are you guys, Children of the Corn? Jimmy there's got a mouthful of sharp teeth, and red eyes like he's been smoking weed all night. You guys part of a cult? Hey, Santa don't wanna join. You keep the hell away from Santa. Santa's got mace somewhere. I think it's stuck in one of my folds. Don't come any nearer unless you want those eyes to melt out of your sockets. You let Santa put some distance between this alley and you.

Christ, Santa needs AA. Santa can't be waking up like this no more.