skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Monday, 26 December
Another Jesus Day has come and gone, and again, I find myself that much the richer for having made fun of it. I got some good swag indeed: the wife presented me with delights such as seasons 3 and 4 of The Simpsons as well as a luxurious new robe. I look forward to watching the yellow hilarity over and over while wearing a brand new ratty hole into the seat of my robe. The parents got in on the act too--in return for my anniversary generosity (my parents' anniversary is earlier in the month) consisting of two pounds of jerky, my parents generously sent us . . . two pounds of jerky. Yes, this is true. We're a dried meat kind of family.
My mother also came through in her inimitable way--she bought us yet another completely mystifying Christmas gewgaw. Last year's entry was this . . . thing that sort of hurts the mind. It's this foot-tall green Christmas stork with a Santa hat rakishly pulled down over its eyes, with a festive disco orb hanging from its beak. It is, in its singular way, utterly transfixing. For reasons I do not fully comprehend, it is my wish that one day PJ Harvey drops by and sees it and then writes a song about it. My Christmas stork would have mad cred.
I never thought she'd top that one, but she might have this year with . . . again, words are not enough. Were my horrible cameraphone not on the fritz, I'd take a photo. Okay: what it is, is a dog. The dog is golden yellow, and he wears a hatlike thing that is really a curved wire with a bell on the end of it, so it hangs over his head, ringing cheerily into his dog ears at all times. In his mouth is some sort of holiday basket that contains, as near as I can tell, a pair of eyes, perhaps chewed from the head of a misbehaving child. He is covered in red spots (Christmas Dog! Now with German Measles!) and wears elfin green boots on all four feet. Finally, he sports a truly alarming tail, one that juts out at a 45-degree angle from his ass that is unmistakeably penile in aspect. The overall effect is uniquely horrifying and yet endearing; his face is painted in a sidelong glance that says "You have no idea what I've been chewing or where I can pee." It's like something Heironymus Bosch might have imagined if under commission from the People for the Unimaginable Fetishization of Gay Animals (PUFGA).
Oh, I didn't even mention the weird part yet. In addition to all of the above, I discovered that the poor beast is hinged right at the small of his dogback. Gripping the thing's head and gently lifting up, sure enough, the top half of this curious canine swung up to reveal its true nature: it was a box. And let's not be coy: it's not a large box. It's only a couple inches tall. So we must conclude that, yes . . . it can only be a stash box. Thanks, Mom! Not that I've smoked pot in many years, but should there be a bust, and should I, for some reason, have some pot in the house, I can be reasonably sure that the cops will not try and look inside (or, probably, at) the Blighted Gay Christmas Fetish Dog and His Basket of Eyes.
The wife's parents also got into the act, but not in an overtly weird way like my erratic mother. Their main gift to us was the completely unexpected purchase of two nights stay on . . . a houseboat. Huh? Well, there's apparently this guy an hour or so away from us who maintains four houseboats on the water (good place for them!) and rents them as romantic getaways. Seriously. They accompanied the gift certificates with pajamas for me, a nightie for the wife, and an assortment of wines and snacks for us to take on our hubba-hubba Nite of Luv on the houseboat (it's extra to have Robert DeNiro climb on board in the middle of the night to try and murder us). It is, in seriousness, a pretty cool and creative gift, and in all unseriousness, my favorite part is that included in the snack basket was a jar of pickles, because my mother-in-law knows I'm fond of them. I can't wait to eat a jar of pickles on a mysterious houseboat (in my pajamas) and then attempt to get busy with the wife. "Honey . . . they're koooo-sheeeer . . . " It would have been even better if the wife's nightie was made by Vlasic. "Slip into this . . . then slip a pickle into your mouth."
It was a good weekend, all told. We had a potluck gathering at our place on Jesus Eve, and many weary, half-drunk people showed up bearing things in bottles and trays; the wife cooked a turkey; complicated desserts were consumed; the Chartreuse, lamentably, went undrunk, so there it still sits. And after the pre-Jesusness, the wife and I were not much into doing much for the actual Jesus Day--spent, happily, on our own with only the NFL to keep us company--and so we kept it simple. In fact, we kept it simpler than simple. We had Christmas Simplex.
For Christmas dinner, we feasted on chili, beet salad and Li'l Smokies. No joke. "Wot? The Li'l Smokie as big as me?" God bless us, every one.
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Sounds like the in-laws are angling for some grandkids.
Your mom needs to shop here. Please check out the Ram's Head Snuff Mull. Just ain't Christmas without one.
Sorry I missed the party! I was planning on coming by but was just too Jesus-ed out to go anywhere. I can't wait to see the Blighted Gay Christmas Fetish Dog and His Basket of Eyes. Oh, you kill me, Kurruk!
Our moms must go shopping to the freaky-ass stores together. My mom got me an 80s-style cosby sweater. No joke. It's worse than you imagine, by far. Now I just need to find some stirrup pants and leg warmers, and I'd be ALL set! Maybe next Christmas.
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