Marry X-mas

So yeah,

I totally spent x-mas with my relatives in the Ozarks and it was totally dope.  I don’t get to talk to that part of the family because they do not subject themselves to society’s norms of telephone access or hygiene.  My cousin Orville took me out to see how real people live in real America.  We spent the day before xmas finding a tree to cut down and decorate.  When we found the most perfect pine tree I had ever seen, we tried to saw it down.  Orville doesn’t have a chainsaw, so we took turns with the hacksaw.  It was cool, because the five hours we put into slicing this mighty timber down just made this pine tree’s maple syrup taste even sweeter.  So yeah, since my cousins are not burdened by worldly possessions, they don’t have “xmas ornaments” in the traditional sense.  We went down to the junkyard across the street to recycle what decadent people put in the trash next to disposable diapers and issues of Us Weekly.  Soon, I found plenty of shiny syringes and cat-food tin lids to adorn our feisty bush.  All that was missing was a star for the top of the tree.  As I pondered this, I saw something shiny glint in the distance.  It was the hood ornament sparkling on the hood of a 1973 Yugo!  I totally had to gank that, so I climbed atop a pile of Datsuns and Subaru’s to grasp this pinnacle of perfection.  As I was trying to position myself, I grabbed the Yugo’s shift lever and the car started rolling forward.  I panicked and I crawled in through the window.  The car just kept going faster and faster as it slid down the pile of foreign cars until I hit the bottom.  An old roof from a tornado-demolished mobile home acted like a ramp, launching the Yugo straight into Cousin Orville’s living room.  When the car came to rest between the wood stove and the little shrine they built to Dale Earnhardt.  When I opened the door, I knocked over one of the candles in the shrine, and it ignited the ultra-flammable children’s sleepwear that had been used to create the backdrop for the shrine.  The ensuing fire melted all of the lenolyum off the floor and melted all of their velvet paintings of Jesus.  I told them it was not my fault, because the car was an evil tool of capitalism and since it’s gears were greased with the blood of the workers, it was the manager’s fault for mistreating the wage slaves.  Orville’s older brother Gus hit me with a board with a nail in it until I lost consciousness.  I later woke up at a bus station in Bentonville, Arkansas.  I didn’t have any shoes but I did have a sack full of those cat food tin lids with me.  I’m glad it wasn’t a hood ornament from a Fiat, because Fiats are made by Italian Fascists.  It was a happy holiday after all!

Peace!

P.S.  Does anyone have a couch I can crash on for New Years?

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