Ho ho ho, Jesus Christ, it’s the Holiday Season and Christmas and stuff, huh? Or Xmas if you will, right? Do you do the Xmas? Open up your chimney for the Fat Man in the red suit, leave him a cookie or a nice brownie or whatever? Did you get what you wanted? You know what I mean, did you make sure you told whoever’s supposed to be Santa’s Helper and in charge of your gift to go to the mall or get on the internet and buy you the present you wanted? Basically that’s how it works, eh?

Unless you live in one of those stupid fucking car commercials on teevee where somebody puts a gigantical ribbon-bow on the roof of some expensive car for you and takes you outside with your eyes all covered and it’s like “Hey, here’s a fitty-thousand dollar car for ya, Happy Whatever, and boy are you surprised to get a car, because even though you live in a richie-rich house, you didn’t, like, exactly specifically ask for a whole fuckin’ car for Xmas, didja?”

Man, every time I see one of those commercials, I get steamed, because I drive a Civic with 245,000 miles on it, and the AC is busted and now the driver’s side window doesn’t roll down right on account of how some dumbass in a gigantical SUV put a crease in the side of my car and now the door’s so screwed up I can’t roll the fucking window up or down without using both hands. But I gotta crack all the windows down a little when I’m driving because I think there’s, like, an exhaust leak or something, and I don’t want to get carbon-dioxide poisoning or mono or whatever it is that happens when you suck on an exhaust pipe. Except I’m not doin’ that—seriously, man, I wanna live, really—but eventually one of these times I just fuckin’ know I’m gonna end up reaching over from the driver’s side to crank or uncrank that passenger-side window and ow ow my back owowow I just fuckin’ got that twinge which means I’m not gonna be able to bend from the waist for three days and I was all set to go exercise and get myself in shape and now my back owow . . . like I was saying, I completely know one of these times I’ll be snappin’ off that goddamn window handle, because I’m alla time trying to crank it from the other side of the car and I’ll probably skin my knuckles, too, fuck, ow.

Anyhow, like I was saying, I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna be seein’ a big ol’ deluxe SUV parked in my driveway with a big, stupid, giant bow on top. I’m not sayin’ I don’t think somebody maybe at some time did that for real—put a giant bow on top of an expensive car as a present—alls I’m sayin’ is you gotta be realistic at Xmastime and not put Santa or any of the helpers in the position of underdelivering. So, like I said, alls I’m sayin’ is, for Xmas I would like a new car.

Yeah, I know, that’s probably not gonna show up under the tree, so that’s why I’m on my way to the fuckin’ mall so’s I can maybe check it out with Santa, OK? You know, the Miracle of Xmas and shit? Right? Ho ho ho?

OK, I’m gonna just climb up here on Santa’s lap and see if I can work out a deal, but gimme a sec, cause I hurt my back the other day, alright? Ow, urf! Umph! OK, you fat jolly bastard Mister Claus, Sir, look, this is not the most dignified way to do this, but c’mon, man, you know when I been sleepin’ and you know when I’m awake and all that, but have you seen my ride? Hey, look man, quit it, OK? The beard tickles, so back off. No, I don’t want to see the North Pole, Jesus Christ. Dude, you can’t fool me with the gum, man. I could smell the booze on yer bref halfway across the mall, man. Wow, do you like, brush your fucking teeth with vodka in the morning or what? And no, I don’t wanna get it “pimped,” or whatever—it’s still gonna be the same tired-ass set of wheels. Wha? I’m talkin’ about my car, man.

I mean, look, there’s like, permanent butt-cheek grooves in the driver’s seat because that’s the seat that always gets used by my specific butt-cheeks when I’m driving, and I think that’s part of what’s contributing to the Misery in my back, right? Seriously, the seat has a groove in it, man, so c’mon, we’re almost talkin’ about a strictly medicinal automotive application, umkay? Hah? I don’t even need a big ribbon on it or anything, seriously, because that’s for irritating slice o’ affluent life commercials.

Hey, hell no man, no, that wetness ain’t from me! Jeez, no really, I think you spilled some of your special mix of “Santa’s Helper” and Red Bull on your lap after that last kid climbed down. C’mon, straighten up and listen to me, this is serious, OK? C’mon fat-ass, focus. Look, how about this—you think you got any way to get my column to go every week? I mean we’re talkin’ car payments here, OK? Huh? Whaddya think? Jeez, your eyes are bloodshot, bro. Look, after I’m done here, I’ll go over to the Rite-Aid and get you some eye drops, OK? On me, I insist—just please breathe over that way for a minute, umkay?

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