*boyspoke…we’re not kidding around*

Is it too late? Or is there still time to submit my list? My original must have gotten lost in the shuffle, mixed up with all the others. Or maybe it never made it up north. Damn, I knew I shouldn't have trusted that no-name delivery company to get it there. I should have carried it myself, or at least paid to have it signed upon receipt. Either way, Santa must never have gotten my list, because goddamn if I didn't get a single thing I wanted for Christmas.

Sure, I got a lot of things. Tons, heaps. And who could really complain about the cool gadgets, the clothes, the cold hard cash? I even love the sentiment where the gifts fall short: my mom is downright convinced that I love those novelty ties she gave me.

Plus there's the giving of gifts that totally rules. I mean, giving my dad the Band of Brother's DVD Boxed Set? Awesome. My mom's reaction to the necklace? Sweet. The look on my brother's face when I gave him a sucker punch for not calling me while I've been away? These are the moments that count. That make the holidays oh so sweet that you can taste it like shards of peppermint candy still stuck in your teeth from the one you chomped impatiently an hour ago.

But what about me? I didn't want anything complicated. Nothing elaborate, rare, or even expensive. I wanted something pretty run of the mill, and I didn't get it:

Dear Santa,

I only want one thing for Christmas this year, but before I ask, remember that when I left you cookies last time, I ditched the milk and left you a tumbler of brandy to get you through the cold night. And yeah, big man, I think I've been pretty good, should be pretty up on your nice list. I call my mom every week to let her know I haven't been killed or enlisted. I stay out of fights with these good ol' Southern boys. I even showed that one girl what getting eaten out is supposed to feel like. I've been fucking top notch, Santa man. So all I want for Christmas is a hot little number. Put her in an elf hat, with a killer smile and some energy. I don't mind if she's a little nuts; scratch that, I prefer it. Can't beat the excitement. Everything else is your call–hair color, cup size, whatever–just as long as she's basically sweet, has something she cares about besides herself, and thinks sex is healthy. Oh, and if she doesn't mind me rocking some triumphant Styx between coitus and subsequent pillow talk, that's a bonus. That's all I want, Redman. Hook a brother up, Papa Claus. I been good.

–Mickey

PS…I've enclosed some a visual if that helps.

Pretty straight forward, right? But no. My list must never have gotten there. Either that or Santa is definitely getting rail liquor next year. Fuck that, he's back to milk. And whatever shitty cookies I can get for fifty cents at the local drugstore. Pepperidge Farm, my ass. Now how am I supposed to move on to New Year's and get my resolutions straight? Oh, Bah Humbug!

This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 28th, 2005 at 9:20 pm and is filed under girls + boobs + rants + blue balls. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site. -->