Clarke667
24-12-2004, 22:19
Well the day is upon us, and personally, I’m filled with yuletide cheer (and about a dozen Guiness tallboys), so I figured a little Christmas tale would get everyone in the spirit.
EKS-MAS STORY
It was just… one of those birthdays. You know? One of those nothing occasions. Kind of like twenty-six—that’s another nothing b-day. Or thirty-three.
Well, not thirty-three. That actually turned out to be a big one.
He hung another plastic bulb on his tree. The bulb was pink and sparkly blue, and on its side it had a picture of a skinny reindeer; the poor thing looked like it had an eating disorder. Sort of sad, really. Not exactly festive.
Who got him this one, again? Was it Matthew? Probably. Matthew was a real miser.
Douchebag.
The big two-oh-oh-four, Jesus thought. He spread tinsel over a few branches. Yippee.
The tinsel looked like silver blood clots.
After about a millennium, Christmas just started being a real drag for Jesus. Just last week, Dr. Phil was telling an alcoholic husband that he had to drop the luggage he was carrying around through his life, all the bad times and bad memories.
Don’t wanna be mean here, Dr. Phil told him, and you can tell me to shove-off if ya like… but so what if yo daddy beat you? That was thirty years ago—it’s over ‘n done. So you just drop that luggage down at the airport, and you just never pick it up. You walk away.
And watching this, stuffing salt and vinegar chips in his mouth (and getting more than a few crumbs on his goatee), Jesus thought: Amen brother.
But how exactly was he supposed to “drop that luggage down at the airport”, when about half the population of the world—and all of the population North of the world—celebrated his luggage each and every year? His mortal birth, hurray, a flourish of trumpets… but then, of course, his mortal death. Easter. Worst than Christmas.
How would anybody else like it if they had an international Bill’s Wife Died From a Brain Tumour Day? How would that make Bill feel, if every April Seventeenth or whatever, everyone decorated a hospital bed in their living room and sent Merry Dead Wife! greeting cards to all their friends and relatives.
I’m Peter Jennings, and before I sign-off I’d like to wish everyone a tumourific holiday season.
You’re rambling, Jesus told himself. And you’re drunk. Again.
Sometimes, having the ability to make water into wine was more of a curse than a miracle.
Time for the angel, now. Better get the stepladder.
Jesus sighed and rummaged through the hall closet, tossing aside shoeboxes and broom-handles (though no broom heads, strangely) and the other random bric-a-brac one manages to collect over the years. Most of which, he noticed, were old birthday gifts.
Ugh.
He found the stepladder under a pile of unused waffle-makers. He had six of them—six! That was insane.
At least two of them were from Matthew. Douchebag.
He set the ladder in front of the tree and unwrapped the angel. It was one of the few ornaments he actually liked: a real silk robe, blond fibre-optic hair that twinkled in the light, finely carves features. A pretty little angel chick. One hot piece of heavenly a—
No impure thoughts, now. But oh, sometimes it was difficult. He was the oldest bachelor in existence, after all. The farthest he ever got was second base with Mary Magdalene, and she was a prostitute for Dad’s sake.
He shook his head disgustedly and impaled the angel on the top of the tree. He flicked tinsel on her and muttered unchristian things to himself.
The big two-oh-oh-four, he thought.
Later, in the kitchen, he put the plug in the sink and ran the faucet full-tilt. He rolled up his sleeves and prepared himself to start blessing up a storm.
He was getting ploughed tonight, that’s for damn sure. Streamrolled. Hella stinko. And then, he was going to make his trademark drunken phonecalls to all the Apostles—his only yuletide joy. He would tell them what he really thought of them, and maybe he’d even get enough liquid courage to march on over to Matthew’s timeshare condo and sock him a good one in the throat.
But first, he’d give Mary Mag a ring. Maybe he’d try to steal for third.
Two-oh-oh-four, Jesus thought. That’s a lucky nothing year.
After all, he was nailed to the cross. The least she could do is get nailed.
FIN (and I apologize for the blasphemy, if you’re a religious type; I meant no harm)
EKS-MAS STORY
It was just… one of those birthdays. You know? One of those nothing occasions. Kind of like twenty-six—that’s another nothing b-day. Or thirty-three.
Well, not thirty-three. That actually turned out to be a big one.
He hung another plastic bulb on his tree. The bulb was pink and sparkly blue, and on its side it had a picture of a skinny reindeer; the poor thing looked like it had an eating disorder. Sort of sad, really. Not exactly festive.
Who got him this one, again? Was it Matthew? Probably. Matthew was a real miser.
Douchebag.
The big two-oh-oh-four, Jesus thought. He spread tinsel over a few branches. Yippee.
The tinsel looked like silver blood clots.
After about a millennium, Christmas just started being a real drag for Jesus. Just last week, Dr. Phil was telling an alcoholic husband that he had to drop the luggage he was carrying around through his life, all the bad times and bad memories.
Don’t wanna be mean here, Dr. Phil told him, and you can tell me to shove-off if ya like… but so what if yo daddy beat you? That was thirty years ago—it’s over ‘n done. So you just drop that luggage down at the airport, and you just never pick it up. You walk away.
And watching this, stuffing salt and vinegar chips in his mouth (and getting more than a few crumbs on his goatee), Jesus thought: Amen brother.
But how exactly was he supposed to “drop that luggage down at the airport”, when about half the population of the world—and all of the population North of the world—celebrated his luggage each and every year? His mortal birth, hurray, a flourish of trumpets… but then, of course, his mortal death. Easter. Worst than Christmas.
How would anybody else like it if they had an international Bill’s Wife Died From a Brain Tumour Day? How would that make Bill feel, if every April Seventeenth or whatever, everyone decorated a hospital bed in their living room and sent Merry Dead Wife! greeting cards to all their friends and relatives.
I’m Peter Jennings, and before I sign-off I’d like to wish everyone a tumourific holiday season.
You’re rambling, Jesus told himself. And you’re drunk. Again.
Sometimes, having the ability to make water into wine was more of a curse than a miracle.
Time for the angel, now. Better get the stepladder.
Jesus sighed and rummaged through the hall closet, tossing aside shoeboxes and broom-handles (though no broom heads, strangely) and the other random bric-a-brac one manages to collect over the years. Most of which, he noticed, were old birthday gifts.
Ugh.
He found the stepladder under a pile of unused waffle-makers. He had six of them—six! That was insane.
At least two of them were from Matthew. Douchebag.
He set the ladder in front of the tree and unwrapped the angel. It was one of the few ornaments he actually liked: a real silk robe, blond fibre-optic hair that twinkled in the light, finely carves features. A pretty little angel chick. One hot piece of heavenly a—
No impure thoughts, now. But oh, sometimes it was difficult. He was the oldest bachelor in existence, after all. The farthest he ever got was second base with Mary Magdalene, and she was a prostitute for Dad’s sake.
He shook his head disgustedly and impaled the angel on the top of the tree. He flicked tinsel on her and muttered unchristian things to himself.
The big two-oh-oh-four, he thought.
Later, in the kitchen, he put the plug in the sink and ran the faucet full-tilt. He rolled up his sleeves and prepared himself to start blessing up a storm.
He was getting ploughed tonight, that’s for damn sure. Streamrolled. Hella stinko. And then, he was going to make his trademark drunken phonecalls to all the Apostles—his only yuletide joy. He would tell them what he really thought of them, and maybe he’d even get enough liquid courage to march on over to Matthew’s timeshare condo and sock him a good one in the throat.
But first, he’d give Mary Mag a ring. Maybe he’d try to steal for third.
Two-oh-oh-four, Jesus thought. That’s a lucky nothing year.
After all, he was nailed to the cross. The least she could do is get nailed.
FIN (and I apologize for the blasphemy, if you’re a religious type; I meant no harm)