‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house…
…not a creature was stirring…
…not even a louse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care…
…in the hopes that the paparazzi soon would be there.
Please take my photo.
I want to be famous!
I’ll protect you, my dear. They won’t get anywhere near you.
Stay away from me, dummy, or I’ll smack you with a horseshoe.
You’ll cost me a reality show and a spacious new palace.
My life’s more confused than the plotline of Malice.
What is the source of your furious behavior?
I’m insecure about my manhood and need to be a savior.
Perhaps switch to decaf and learn to shut up.
Regardless, when this is over, I’ll contest the prenup.
Until then, I’ll rage…
…and make scenes.
But Happy Christmas to all, even all you toxic queens.
Happy holidays, Afflictor readers, whatever religion or culture you observe. Unless you think your stupid personal mythology makes you better than someone else. Then you should go scratch your ass with a broken milk bottle. Because none of us is special. I mean, most of us actually deserve a good caning. So let’s tear down the pretenses and egos and statues, and realize that we’re all just sacks of shit. Beautiful sacks of shit, sure, but that’s it. After all, we only believe those nonsense religions because we’re afraid of dying. And we should be. Death is a bastard.
Anyhow: Happy holidays!–Darren