It’s not the slightest bit Christmassy, but this just can’t wait. Its urgency is palpable. (go on, palpate it)
Spork, a humble re-edit of Zachary Quinto‘s audiobook from the recent Star Trek movie is nothing more than the greatest iteration of fan fiction in the Kirk/Spock slash canon, including the hitherto-untouchable Closer music video.
A Christmas classic which gets heavy airplay around the ol’ raincoaster blog is that beloved oldie, Christmas on Acid by the Vestibules. Not only is the tune catchy and the lyrics accurate (um, from what I hear) but the video is a winter wonderland of the wonky and weird. But don’t take my word for it: check it out for yourself:
And now, may we present for the first time on this website, an authentic, original tale of Christmas Eve on Acid or At Least Giving Every Appearance of Being Under The Influence of Something Hallucinogenicish?
Well, it was the Drive. For those of you who don’t know, the Drive is Commerical Drive, or rather a section of it extending from about Venables to maybe 2nd or at a stretch Broadway, although that really IS stretching it. It has many nifty shops forartsies and hippies old and new, particularly those with a fondness for plants and produce. And yeah, they’re big on altered states there, whether you alter your consciousness by reading Sartre or by ingesting something.
The audACIDy of Dope
So my conclusion that the young man in the following story may have been under the influence of influencers is not without foundation, however shaky, particularly after the fifth eggnog. NEVER let your foundation get into the eggnog ahead of you, or you don’t know where you’ll end up.
Where he and his overcoated companion ended up one snowy Christmas Eve was directly in front of a butcher store window.
Now, the Drive, I should explain, is the old Italian part of town, or used to be before the dirty hippies moved in. Now it’s full of old, stubborn Italians (do I repeat myself?) and dirty old hippies, dirty young hippies and a fair sprinkling of hipsters, who have begun going over the wall of their reservation along Main and infecting the rest of the city, wherever they can buy clove cigarettes and ironic tees.
Now these two? They were none of the above. One was a sturdy-looking, dark-haired (and possibly Italianate) twentysomething in, as explained above, an overcoat. A really quite snazzy overcoat of camel, though that’s probably just a euphemism for beige, as camels are not known for cold resistance now that I think of it.
The other, our befuddled protagonist, was equally twentysomething, and clad equally in an overcoat, although this was of the navy rather than camel persuasion and now that I think of it, it probably contained no fibres that had ever served in a military capacity at all.
And he was freaked out. Deeply, deeply freaked out. Like, screaming in the street, grabbing his head and running in circles Freaked The Fuck Right Out.
He’d probably have been running in a straight line, away from The Drive and back to Kerrisdale or the West End or whatever strange land from whence he came, but Camel Coat had a hold of his naval elbow and wasn’t letting go, cooing, “it’s okay, it’s okay, it can’t hurt you,” and causing his friend to zoom around in circles like a Jack Russell on speed.
And what Merry Christmas sight had caused a hitherto passing for sober young man to lose it right there on the Drive on a snowy Christmas Eve? Only a simple, homey, Old World holiday tradition, sitting right there in the window of the old-timey Italian butcher shop. Just this: click on if you DARE!
I’ve been told (repeatedly) that I’ve been in a bad mood lately, which is something that’ll put you in a bad mood even if you weren’t in one already, which I usually am, so I thought I might as well just fucking go with it. So. Merry Fucking Christmas.
… you boys at FOX still freak out every year about how everyone’s out to get your special trees. This is really the most important thing you have to talk about? Whether Target says Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas? Here’s a brainstorm: there’s a fucking war on. Our soldiers are out there dying while you guys do your 14th live feed of the day from WalMart to show us what good little consumers we are. What Would Jesus Do? He’d jump over that newsdesk and kick your ass for that shit. Are you sure you want to hang your journalism credentials on a story about what some guy calls a tree?
Well we’ve fucking had it. You want to play bullshit games and scream about how God’s fucking judgment is gonna come raining down on us if we don’t start watching our vocabulary? Go right the fuck ahead. But let me clue you in on something: fire and brimstone ain’t no deterrent for us. We’re not going to hell, assholes, we’re fucking in hell. We live with you.
Merry Fucking Christmas, by Denis Leary
Ol’ Saint Nick’s got bourbon breath
It’s so cold you could catch your death
A cop sold me some crystal meth
It’s a Merry Fucking Christmas
Everything’s so Christmassy
The streets are twinkling with frozen pee
My priest just sat on santa’s knee
It’s a Merry Fucking Christmas
All the kids go to bed each night to dream what santa brings ’em (brings ’em)
Unless they’re jewish or muslim or some other gyp religion
Crappy toys flying off the shelves
Midgets dressed up to look like elves
Spread good cheer or burn in hell
It’s a Merry Fucking Christmas
All the kids go to bed each night to dream what santa brings ’em
Unless they’re jewish or muslim or some other gyp religion
Cracklin’ fires to keep me warm
And my collection of asian porn
Cradle my bells and work my horn
It’s a keep on truckin’, last year suckin’, midget chuckin’, slap the puckin’, how much wood could a wood chuck chuckin’, Merry Fucking Christmas
Among many others. But not, I repeat, NOTMerry Fucking Christmas, which was done by Denis Leary. Or, for that matter, the War of 1812, which was done by Three Dead Trolls in a Baggie and which is wonderful, but has nothing whatever to do with Christmas as far as I know. There is, in fact, no shortage of anti-Christmas music, although not quite enough to drown out the pathetic warblings of some long-dead alcoholic on the mall speaker system croaking out yet another twee iteration of “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree“.
Have yourself a merry fucking Christmas
Shove it up your ass
Pardon me for a seasoned greeting so crass
Have yourself a merry fucking Christmas
Keep drinking that eggnog
Chased with Jag shots so you’re in a drunken fog
No such thing as “the good old days”
Just get that out of your head
Though it’s better than the future
When we’ll all wish we were dead
Good luck on getting yourself together
That’s IF time allows
I wanted to kill this sacred cow somehow
So have yourself a merry fucking Christmas now
But wait, there’s more!
Merry Fucking Christmas was also done by the bad boys of South Park, who did such a super job on Team America, World Police (fuck yeah!) and here it is:
(apparently South Park has better lawyers than Denis Leary does)
I heard there is no Christmas
In the silly Middle East
No trees, no snow, no Santa Claus
They have different religious beliefs
They believe in Muhammad
And not in our holiday
And so every December
I go to the Middle East and say…
“Hey there Mr. Muslim
Merry fucking Christmas
Put down that book the Koran
And hear some holiday wishes.
In case you haven’t noticed
It’s Jesus’s birthday.
So get off your heathen Muslim ass
and fucking celebrate.
There is no holiday season in India I’ve heard
They don’t hang up their stockings
And that is just absurd!
They’ve never read a Christmas story.
They don’t know what Rudolph is about
And that is why in December
I’ll go to India and shout…
Hey there Mr. Hinduist
Merry fucking Christmas
Drink eggnog and eat some beef
And pass it to the missus.
In case you haven’t noticed
It’s Jesus’s birthday
So get off your heathen Hindu ass
and fucking celebrate!
Now I heard that in Japan
Everyone just lives in sin
They pray to several gods
And put needles in their skin.
On December 25th
All they do is eat a cake
And that is why I go to Japan
And walk around and say…
Hey there Mr. Shintoist
Merry fucking Christmas
God is going to kick your ass
You infidelic pagan scum.
In case you haven’t noticed
There’s festive things to do
So lets all rejoice for Jesus
And Merry fucking Christmas to you.
On Christmas day I travel `round theworld and say,
Taoists, Krishnas, Buddhists, and all you atheists too,
Merry Fucking Christmas, To You!
Now if that doesn’t put you in the right mood, there’s only ONE thing I can do to shake the Christmas Spirit into your thick skull, and that is to introduce you to my new favorite Christmastime movie, In Bruges.
If you’re an economist, you’ve probably heard about all kinds of bizarre and no doubt three-letter-acronymed thingies that measure vitality of the economy. If you’re not an economist (demographically speaking, it is indeed likely that people reading my blog are not economists, as surprising as that may seem) you may have heard of things like the GDP, SET index, and similiar TLA‘s, but have you heard of:
The hotter the waitresses, the weaker the economy. In flush times, there is a robust market for hotness. Selling everything from condos to premium vodka is enhanced by proximity to pretty young people (of both sexes) who get paid for providing this service. That leaves more-punishing work, like waiting tables, to those with less striking genetic gifts. But not anymore.
A waitress at one Lower East Side club described to me what happened there: “They slowly let the boys go, then the less attractive girls, and then these hot girls appeared out of nowhere. All in the hope of bringing in more business. The managers even admitted it. These hot girls that once thrived on the generosity of their friends in the scene for hookups—hosting events, marketing brands, modeling—are now hunting for work.” A Soho restaurateur I know recently received applications from “a couple of classic Eastern European fembots. Once upon a time, these ladies must’ve made $1,500 a night lap dancing. At my place, they’re not going to make that in a week.”
In the same vein, and somewhat more directly relevant, at least to MY life and probably to yours, too, since who can afford to eat out anymore, I’d like to present:
I was invited to fourteen corporate holiday parties last year, all within walking distance of one another, all with open bars. This year, NONE! And I didn’t suddenly become more obnoxious, companies have really cut back.
The Great Crustacean War on Humanity: You’d be surprised at how much material has been suppressed. Go ahead, just try and search for anything, give Cthuugle your best shot. You won’t succeed in finding much at all, and that can mean only one thing:
A COVERUP!
First, we have this valuable find: an historical document obviously written from the crustacean perspective.
What can it mean?
This, as well, from a book whose deeply sexist title translates as “To Serve Man.”
It’s obvious they’re violent and aggressive.
i can haz werld dominashun?
There is archival footage of at least one series of attacks on human beings:
In a warm dystopia many years from now, New York City will be underwater and ginormous mutant crustaceans will roam the globe…
Where will it end? It appears they’ve developed technology to artificially inflate their temperatures and thus accelerate the unnatural and loathesome swelling of their species.
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raincoaster 