T’was the day before Christmas, when day drinking is fine. Fuck, I need to buy presents! Get me Amazon on the line!

The stockings were sweaty, cuz I sweat when I nap. And all you people care about is that Duck Dynasty crap.

The children! The children! Where the hell are the children? At Wal-Mart? At Target? Oh crap, I think there might really be a problem.

With mama in her push-up, and me in my holey underpants, will be drinking until blackout – the kind where you think your face is filled with ants.

When out on the driveway, someone makes a big fuss. I grab my bat to go rearrange someone’s puss.

Then I hear him, unlocking, that bolt on the door. Then he walks in, all snowy, damn, Santa’s six foot, four!

I peer from the kitchen, and watch him go to work. He starts rifling through my DVD’s, I’m starting to think he’s some kinda jerk.

Something just isn’t right. This dude drove a van. And he’s not dressed like Santa. Fuck, this dude is robbing me, man!

More rapid than eagles, more swiftly as Lorenzo Cain, I jump this bastard’s ass and bring all of the pain.

A swing with my Easton upon his sweet head, chucking chicklets like Billy Butler, leaving him wounded, but not dead.

I pushed him out of the door, to his van he did crawl, “now fuck off! away! fuck off! away! fuck off! away! Y’all!”

And I heard him wimper, as he drove out of sight, “Sorry, mister! Merry Christmas!” Then I poured a Scotch and called it a night.

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