The Twelfth Day of Christmas

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas my true love gave to me, the Polar Pig. Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. The. Pig’s. Way. I have no earthly clue why anyone is calling it the Polar Vortex when it could also be called the Polar Pig. Makes no sense. Get your head out of your ass and hop on board the Pig. Polar Pig, get some. I like how this whole 12 Days of Christmas initiative has come full circle. Nice little bookends, polar blast up the ass for day 1, end it with the Polar Pig. “Oh, but Christmas has been over for two weeks you dumb ass!” Well, guess what? Fuck you, that’s what. Today is the 12th Day of Christmas because I says it is. No one knows when Jebus was born. What everyone knows is that it sure as shit wasn’t on December 25th, so I can call my own shot on when the 12th day arrives because there is no governing body. Not even creationist mouth-breathers still believe it was the 25th. I don’t know who does but they’re an asshole of gargantuan proportions. Like Oprah’s ass after the holidays when you could show a drive-in movie on it size of asshole. It is a simple story: The Emperor Constantine saw the Christian Express gaining steam and said “Fuck it, better get out of the way or hop on board” and chose the latter. A few years later Pope Julius I declared that December 25th was the official day to celebrate Christmas. Why? Because that was already one of the biggest days of the year that pagans partied their tits off and he knew Christmas or no Christmas, they were getting fucked up that day anyway. So bingo-bango, declare Christmas on the same day and it seamlessly works its way into the national zeitgeist and before long people are saying to one another, “Wait, are we celebrating Christmas or Saturnalia?……..Fuck it dude, I want a new Xbox and a rum and eggnog now, tell me about this Jesus cat some other time.” So don’t sit there at your iPad or smart phone and tell me it isn’t the 12th Day of Christmas. Prove it isn’t, bitch.

All these yellow-bellied pussies in various parts of the country who are whining about their own “cold” weather need to wander into the upper Midwest right now, in their North Face fleeces and Hunter rain boots they save for when the mercury drops below 45 degrees, and fucking get some. You’ve got a total of 5 minutes outside to do whatever it is you need to do and after that it is Danger Will Rogers. Anything not wrapped at least thrice in wool and fowl feathers is turning white, then black, then falling right the shit off. The Polar Pig might be looming over a large swath of the United States, but his asshole is right here squarely in our face. When I went to the gym at 5:45am Monday morning the car registered -18 and the windchill below -50. Ja, tinks about it Leebowski. This has come, mind you, behind 2 feet of snow in the preceding 6 days. My dog has to prance around gingerly, doing that one paw up at all times because the earth is either too hot or too cold to touch, until he finds a snow shovel hole to piss in. The snow is above his dick. And you think you have problems? When you walk or drive on the snow, it squeaks. Squeaking snow = cold as dick. Any mathematician will tell you that. Anyone who lives here is a dumbass, plain and simple. I’d punch myself in the face but I’m too cold to register pain. My wife drove me to the train station Monday morning, which is an outdoor platform. I was proving my studliness by refusing to accept a ride all the way into the city. Once dropped off I made my way down the stairs and onto the platform island. It was so goddamn unholy freezing that the speaker system, where the marble mouth CTA employee was announcing to the 1 person (me) waiting for the train that you might as well cozy up to the 3rd rail to get warm because nothing is picking you up anytime soon, sounded like a thousand monkeys screeching a chorus of rust. When outdoor speakers, who are not warm-blooded creatures and are in fact inanimate objects, have said “fuck it, we quit” you know then that a witch’s tit in a brass bra would be a warm cocoon compared to the frozen hell you’re in. I was dressed in wool pants so thick that even Peter North’s erection couldn’t be detected through them, two pairs of socks and winter boots, a sweater, a down parka the Michelin Man would find unflattering, glove liners, Siberia strength gloves, a wool scarf wrapped around my face, a wool hat with a tassel and long side braids like mountain nazi Swiss people wear, and lastly ski goggles. Frankly it was a pretty good look. I resembled one of the doctors roaming around the town in “Outbreak”, only it looked like I was poor and my mom had to piece together my anti-pathogen suit. I made it approximately 90 seconds before a gale came screaming down the tracks at 40+ mph and caused me to have hallucinations of my mommy rocking me to sleep in front of a roaring fire. With all the strength and heat left in my body I removed my right glove and frantically began texting my wife for a hot evacuation from the drop zone before I ended up sitting against the steel beam on the platform with a lunatic smile on my face ala Jack Nicholson in The Shining. It was a race against time as the rapidly evaporating heat from my fingertips struggled to prompt key strokes from my iPhone screen fighting its own battle against the elements. NO NO NO iPhone! Erase erase erase! It is not “too ducking cold”! That does not adequately convey the dire circumstances we’re in here. “Fleece come Jack and Dick my nuts!” NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I need a ride goddamnit iPhone, not a homosexual subzero sex romp. Somehow she was able to decipher the spellcheck Sanskrit and I was saved just prior to Danny out-smarting me in the maze. We made our way slowly but surely into the city on streets paved with squeaking snow. Most businesses in Chicago valued human life over business continuity that day, but I don’t work for any of them. You win, Polar Pig. It was a memorable holiday season, sorry it had to end:

A road trip with a potty training toddler
Finished all my Christmas shopping mutherfuckers
A trip to Rockmill Brewery
A threat to go to the American Girl Place store
A dead car battery
A lone long pube starting back at me from the shower wall at the gym
WHAM!’s “Last Christmas”
A Disney movie full of princesses
A simultaneously puking yet wild-as-shit toddler
A 2 day hangover at age 35 and an
Arctic blast straight 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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