...or How I Stopped Worrying and Every One Fuck Santa in His Lying Ass Hole.
posted: 30 december 2009 / by: E. Plainfield
Getting into "The Holiday Spirit?" I sure am! I can't wait for the STOLEN FUCKING PAGAN HOLIDAY either! Christmas has become all about the money and not about the honey.
None of this. None of this
FACT: Presents are being wrapped in THE SAME PAPER money is printed on. That's why they're so expensive.
FACT: Santa hasn't done any good deeds in at least 2 years. He's probably fucking angry at us?
FACT: What the hell is this.What the hell is this.
FACT: Fuck Santa.
FACT: Guess what animal can't fly? That's right, horse. So Santa would fall down like an asshole.
FACT: Jesus wasn't even born on Christmas, he was born at least 2 years after it.
FACT: The economy fucking BLOWS in my shithole country "The Good Ol' U of SA".
Gather your information from http://wigipedia.com if you don't believe me, Keep perched on that high horse (or reindeer), thinking you're celebrating family when you're really celebrating slavery.
I'm serious. What the hell is this. No.
Bob Dylan released an album about this bore of a fucking "holiday" and the only reason people like it is because he died before he recorded it, Kieth Fletcher story all over again. (I didn't even watch The Bat Night" because of all the weeping fangirls getting in the way of my rambling and gambling).
I'm trying to get a chimney installed into the house with my own bare hands, but it's a bunch of bullshit hard work that I'm not even strong enough to do. I probably shouldn't even do it anyway.
I guess I'm still overly optimistic like I was as a child, I'd always assume my parents were taking me to Disneyland or something cheerful. Guess where we ended up? At the dump. We'd sit there for literally an hour before my parents even said a word, and usually that word was, as spoken by my mother, "Well...", which made my dad just flip the fuck out and steer the idle car violently left and right. We didn't have power steering back then, so it was him putting all of his might into turning the wheels of a stationary station wagon. After his strength wore out and he started wheezing, he'd start the car up again and we'd go back home, stinking of the worst garbage.
Which brings me to my next point.
