Deck the Halls to Hide the Murder Holes, Tra La-La
Predator Press
[LOBO]
December.
And we all know what that means, don't we?
Now that Thanksgiving has come and gone, it's finally that special time of the year when all hearts and minds prepare for the biggest event of the year: The Santa Claus Blanket Party.
I can sense some of you starin' at this blog in utter disbelief. Oh, get over it. You're all thinking it ... at least I've got the stones to put it in print.
That fat bastard has violated the sanctity of our homes for the last time. When that prick sneaks down the chimney 'an goes to greedily wolf down my cookies 'an milk this year, whammo, he's gettin a snow shovel full of holiday cheer right upside the head.
Too chicken to help me with this? Fine, cowards! I'll keep all those Xbox 360s for myself then! It's not like I said I was going to make Santa 'toss my salad' or anything weird; I just wanna rough the guy up a little. Maybe take the reindeer for a spin down to the Burger King drive-thru, that sort of thing. And can you imagine how much those little elves will pay in ransom for the safe return of their poorly dressed, fried-chicken scarfing king?
God, just the thought of that food-stained, grease-dripping beard gives me chills.
"But LOBO," I hear the mincing liberal pansies cry, "Santa brings joy all over the world to often less-fortunate children."
Yeah? Well screw them. I know all about being less-fortunate, thank you: one July when I was a kid, I stole our family's entire month of food stamps and had four pallets of Velveeta Pepper Jack brought to the house. There wasn't anyplace to keep it unnoticed except the neighbor's swimming pool.
I would've pulled the whole thing off, but the dumb kid that lived there dove in and tried opening his eyes in the thick, spicy, bubbling murk. Screaming, he then attempted to dry his burning eyes with fistfuls of my tortilla chips and somehow punctured one of his water wings in the process; this caused a potentially fatal downward clockwise spiral smack into the sour cream.
If that sour cream wasn't there, he most certainly would have drowned.
I'm a hero if you think about it.
We don't need any more of Santa's "selective generosity" crap: this year, the fat man pays up.
In spades.
[LOBO]
December.
And we all know what that means, don't we?
Now that Thanksgiving has come and gone, it's finally that special time of the year when all hearts and minds prepare for the biggest event of the year: The Santa Claus Blanket Party.
I can sense some of you starin' at this blog in utter disbelief. Oh, get over it. You're all thinking it ... at least I've got the stones to put it in print.
That fat bastard has violated the sanctity of our homes for the last time. When that prick sneaks down the chimney 'an goes to greedily wolf down my cookies 'an milk this year, whammo, he's gettin a snow shovel full of holiday cheer right upside the head.
Too chicken to help me with this? Fine, cowards! I'll keep all those Xbox 360s for myself then! It's not like I said I was going to make Santa 'toss my salad' or anything weird; I just wanna rough the guy up a little. Maybe take the reindeer for a spin down to the Burger King drive-thru, that sort of thing. And can you imagine how much those little elves will pay in ransom for the safe return of their poorly dressed, fried-chicken scarfing king?
God, just the thought of that food-stained, grease-dripping beard gives me chills.
"But LOBO," I hear the mincing liberal pansies cry, "Santa brings joy all over the world to often less-fortunate children."
Yeah? Well screw them. I know all about being less-fortunate, thank you: one July when I was a kid, I stole our family's entire month of food stamps and had four pallets of Velveeta Pepper Jack brought to the house. There wasn't anyplace to keep it unnoticed except the neighbor's swimming pool.
I would've pulled the whole thing off, but the dumb kid that lived there dove in and tried opening his eyes in the thick, spicy, bubbling murk. Screaming, he then attempted to dry his burning eyes with fistfuls of my tortilla chips and somehow punctured one of his water wings in the process; this caused a potentially fatal downward clockwise spiral smack into the sour cream.
If that sour cream wasn't there, he most certainly would have drowned.
I'm a hero if you think about it.
We don't need any more of Santa's "selective generosity" crap: this year, the fat man pays up.
In spades.
Comments
They get really good presents that way.
FeelingFlirty
I was wondering, would you update our link from the old Blue Beaver Beer site to http://redneckbarandgrill.com/
We moved to a wordpress site.