The Tenth Day of Christmas

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, finished all my Christmas shopping mutherfuckers. It isn’t even Christmas Eve yet either. Suck it. Suck it so hard. Absolutely dominated this holiday shopping season. Women and children were given no quarter. Black Friday just walked into several places and started punching people in the face. I’ve never been to a store on Black Friday before. First place I walked into, Patagonia, an old woman walked up to me and said “Excuse me sir, do you work here?”. Punched her square in the chin, knockout. I don’t have time for this shit lady. I may have been approached because I was wearing a Patagonia coat, hat and gloves, but who cares. I will not have old women throwing red herrings in front of my mission. I attacked downhill and did not stop to take account of casualties. 3 stores in a lightning strike of consumerism. Nothing but smoldering ashes and crying women as I left. I was knocking over racks of shit I wasn’t even interested in. Some nosy bitch with her two daughters says “Hey, why did you knock that coat rack over, we were looking at those?” I ripped my shirt off, flexed my tits and crossed my hands while making the Wolverine face, replied “Break time’s over, get those hussies back to the champagne room before they turn into pumpkins you old crow.” She wasn’t talking shit after that. 19 year old seasonal store help knew at this point the fucking around was pretty much over and with quaking hands, rang up my purchase. “You want gift wruh-wruh-wruh-wrapping sir? Its fruh-fruh-fruh-fruh-free sir.” “Get the dick out of your mouth kid. I don’t need gift wrapping, do it myself. I wrap like Dutch people fuck: clean and efficient.” I was out the door before the tears had time to roll down their face. Me 3, Black Friday 0.

I have not set foot one in a fucking mall. They can burn for all I care. I largely shopped local. I want to starve out all the little Chinese factory worker kiddies this holiday season. You won’t see me in Target or The Gap. I’m paying extra so I can be smug right in your fucking mass-produced, globalized, out-sourcing face. You know what else I’ll do? I’ll buy American. ‘Merika bitch! Ever heard of it? Land of the fucking free. Home of the brave. I’m not saving money via Malaysian sweatshops. I’m paying 4 times as much money so that some dude stoned out of his fucking tree in northern Wisconsin can take 20 times longer to make it in a shed behind his house. And you know what? I won’t have any clue when it will be ready. Maybe before Christmas, maybe July. Fuck you. If creativity isn’t spontaneous, then it ain’t creative, brah. You think I’m joking? Just walk into our dining room or kitchen and look at the bitchin’ lights my wife managed to find, made by some bong-ripped “artisans” in Vermont. The Home Depot lights they replaced, which were providing more than ample light, NOT made in ‘Merika. Extremely fragile, spaceship-looking, Vermont pot-head forged lights that nearly killed my poor father when he installed them…..’MERIKA.

A lot of people got booze gifts this year. Wines largely from Italy and France. Are wines from Italy and France made in ‘Merika? Fuck no. Why would I buy Euro trash wine when there is perfectly good juice from California, Oregon and Washington to be had? Hypocrisy, that’s why. Keep you fools guessing. Booze is an awesome gift because it gets you drunk and when you are done with it, you don’t have it lying about your home unused turning you into a guilty conscience hoarder. Wine is a better gift than a shirt because a shirt doesn’t get you drunk. You don’t need shirts anyway if you are getting drunk. They get in the way. Shirts make people expect things from you. Booze don’t. “Oh look, this guy is wearing a nice shirt, let’s talk to him about ‘The Voice’ and see if he agrees with our opinions on Obamacare.” Um, no thanks. “Oh shit, this guy is shirtless and hammered. Let’s get the fuck out of here so he can have this basement all to himself with the liquor cabinet”. Yes, please. So if you got booze this year from me, it is because you are awesome. Drink up Johnny, it’s Christmas.

I’m so done with my shopping and you probably aren’t you procrastinating fucking loser. I might go to the mall for the first time this holiday season on Christmas Eve, just to harass the procrastinators. I’ll loiter in the toy store until I see a desperate mom with that wild “I fucked up and didn’t buy the Hot Toy Du Jour in time, and now they’re probably sold out” look on her face. I’ll wait until she sees that they actually have 3 of the Hot Toy Du Jour on the shelf because their last shipment from headquarters got stuck in a blizzard outside Gurnee and didn’t arrive until just this morning. As she makes that last stride across the toy store carpet in her mom jeans and Skechers Shape Ups I’ll snatch from her finger tips all 3 Hot Toy Du Jours and walk to the counter. As she begs and pleads with me to sell her just one, a hundred bucks sir, “I’ll suck your d__k”, I will smile and tell her, “I’m giving these to my dog to chew to shit because I finished my shopping and you didn’t, hag.” It is going to be so awesome. So you can all suck it, suck it so hard, because I finished my Christmas shopping despite:

A trip to Rockmill Brewery
A threat to go to The Americal Girl store
A dead car battery
A lone long pube staring back at me from the gym shower wall
WHAM!’s “Last Christmas”
A Disney movie full of princesses
A simultaneously puking yet wild-as-shit toddler
A two-day hangover at age 35 and an
Arctic blast right up the ass

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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