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Mr. Wrong

Not-So-Secret Santa

By Joe MacLeod | Posted 12/22/2004

Ho ho ho, Jesus Christ, itís 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 whoeverís supposed to be Santaís 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 thatís 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 itís like ďHey, hereís 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 didnít, like, exactly specifically ask for a whole fuckiní car for Xmas, didja?Ē

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 driverís side window doesnít 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 doorís so screwed up I canít roll the fucking window up or down without using both hands. But I gotta crack all the windows down a little when Iím driving because I think thereís, like, an exhaust leak or something, and I donít want to get carbon-dioxide poisoning or mono or whatever it is that happens when you suck on an exhaust pipe. Except Iím not doiní thatóseriously, man, I wanna live, reallyóbut eventually one of these times I just fuckiní know Iím gonna end up reaching over from the driverís side to crank or uncrank that passenger-side window and ow ow my back owowow I just fuckiní got that twinge which means Iím 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 Iíll be snappiní off that goddamn window handle, because Iím alla time trying to crank it from the other side of the car and Iíll probably skin my knuckles, too, fuck, ow.

Anyhow, like I was saying, Iím pretty sure Iím not gonna be seeiní a big olí deluxe SUV parked in my driveway with a big, stupid, giant bow on top. Iím not sayiní I donít think somebody maybe at some time did that for realóput a giant bow on top of an expensive car as a presentóalls Iím sayiní 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 Iím sayiní is, for Xmas I would like a new car.

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

OK, Iím gonna just climb up here on Santaís 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 címon, man, you know when I been sleepiní and you know when Iím awake and all that, but have you seen my ride? Hey, look man, quit it, OK? The beard tickles, so back off. No, I donít want to see the North Pole, Jesus Christ. Dude, you canít 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 donít wanna get it ďpimped,Ē or whateveróitís still gonna be the same tired-ass set of wheels. Wha? Iím talkiní about my car, man.

I mean, look, thereís like, permanent butt-cheek grooves in the driverís seat because thatís the seat that always gets used by my specific butt-cheeks when Iím driving, and I think thatís part of whatís contributing to the Misery in my back, right? Seriously, the seat has a groove in it, man, so címon, weíre almost talkiní about a strictly medicinal automotive application, umkay? Hah? I donít even need a big ribbon on it or anything, seriously, because thatís for irritating slice oí affluent life commercials.

Hey, hell no man, no, that wetness ainít from me! Jeez, no really, I think you spilled some of your special mix of ďSantaís HelperĒ and Red Bull on your lap after that last kid climbed down. Címon, straighten up and listen to me, this is serious, OK? Címon fat-ass, focus. Look, how about thisóyou think you got any way to get my column to go every week? I mean weíre talkiní car payments here, OK? Huh? Whaddya think? Jeez, your eyes are bloodshot, bro. Look, after Iím done here, Iíll go over to the Rite-Aid and get you some eye drops, OK? On me, I insistójust please breathe over that way for a minute, umkay?

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