Christmas Eve Sucks, Too…

I have to get the kids to bed so I can sneak the ridiculously huge pile of presents out of the back of my truck and into the house…little fuckers are eyeballing me, too. They’ve heard my whoppers before, and are prepared to believe Santa is something Daddy came up with while drinking his ‘apple juice’. It is noteworthy that I can leave a glass of anything anywhere in the house, and come back to find it untouched. They are free to sip from Daddy’s glass any time they want, and having done so in the past, they bypass it as if it were a bubbling pool at Chernobyl.

I want to slip into something a little more comfortable, have another drink or seven, and perhaps pork Mrs Claus, but the little turds will not cut me any slack. I sip my V.S.O.P. brandy, and glare at them. They glare back. My ass chaps.

Dammit! Get to fucking bed! It is raining outside, so I am assured of a good soaking as I mule in their loot. It took me seven armloads of big-ass boxes from the storage shed to the back of my truck…the water draining off the hatch of my camper top and down my butt crack…actually, that felt kinda good…soothing. Present-hauling is rough work.

Ah, the Thunder-Bunny and her Mutant Brother are blumping up to bed! I prepare to strike!

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