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 someoneâ€™s puss.
Then I hear him, unlocking, that bolt on the door. Then he walks in, all snowy, damn, Santaâ€™s six foot, four!
I peer from the kitchen, and watch him go to work. He starts rifling through my DVDâ€™s, Iâ€™m starting to think heâ€™s some kinda jerk.
Something just isnâ€™t right. This dude drove a van. And heâ€™s not dressed like Santa. Fuck, this dude is robbing me, man!
More rapid than eagles, more swiftly as Lorenzo Cain, I jump this bastardâ€™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, â€œnow fuck off! away! fuck off! away! fuck off! away! Yâ€™all!â€
And I heard him wimper, as he drove out of sight, â€œSorry, mister! Merry Christmas!â€ Then I poured a Scotch and called it a night.