PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 12/25: Pissing Christmas
December 2001

As a special holiday treat to all the Vinegarheads out there, I am pleased to present a word-for-word transcription of a little tirade I pulled out of my ass around this time last year, which is actually documented on tape. Mind you, it never made it to air... but by merely glancing at the language, it's pretty safe to assume that the airwaves were never its intended place anyway. Some of the lustre is lost by this presentation not being in its original audio form, but I think it still gets the point across. Enjoy!
(Chris Doyle intro: And now... Christmas Reflections... with Willie!)

Hi. You know, I've been driving around this great land of ours for the last few weeks, and I've been noticing everybody getting in the Christmas spirit. All the lights are up, the snow is on the ground -- I saw one poor sap with his tree up at the end of November. Christmas carols wafting in the air, everybody's out doing their shopping... people ask me, "Hey Willie, got your Christmas shopping done yet?" And that's about where I wanna lose it right there, but I don't. Yeah, I'll chuckle, say something along the lines of "Yeah, I WISH," and get on with the rest of my day.

But this morning, it finally broke me down. It's minus fucking 24 overnight, okay? My fucking balls just decided to hibernate in my pancreas for the winter. Michael J. Fox's spit freezes before it hits the fucking ground. Fucking polar bears are standing in line at Zeller's to buy fucking polar fleece sweaters. And some jackass has the nerve to ask me, "Is it cold enough for ya?" It's like, what the fuck? No, asshole, I wish the old mercury would drop a few MORE degrees. Matter of fact, I wish it was so fucking cold, your fucking lips and nostrils froze up when you walked down the street, you couldn't breathe, and you'd be looking at me driving down the street in my nice, warm car, you'd be waving at me frantically as if to give me some sort of sign to run your ass down to put you out of your fucking misery, except I don't get the message 'cause your fucking arms break off and shatter on the sidewalk like that motherfucker in Terminator 2. And some old lady in a walker slips on the debris and smashes into your fucking torso, and it shatters too, til there's nothing left of you but a couple of fucking blinking eyes and a chunk of your brain just big enough to think, "Well, gee, I guess I shouldn't have asked Willie if it was cold enough for him."

But I digress. That's not the point of my story at all. The point is that I fucking hate Christmas. And it isn't because of overcommercialization, or any of that shit. It's because I know the TRUE meaning of Christmas. No, I'm not talking about holy babies born in mangers. I'm talking about what you don't know about all the little things you hold so fucking dear about the Christmas season.

Let's start with mistletoe, shall we? "But, awwww, mistletoe's so cute," you say. No... mistletoe is an excuse for ugly people to get some. It doesn't matter if you're the hottest person at the party. If Jed's retarded albino half-brother, half-daughter catches you under those Leaves of Love, it's game over, pal. And you just laugh, like "Teee-heee, Jebediah just caught me under the mistletoe!" I mean, come ON, ladies. If I were EVER to try and kiss you, you'd be like, "Ewwww, get out of here, you freak!" Well, that's fine. Next time you can kiss my rosy red ass, okay?

Then there's the turkey. Who the fuck made up this rule? I mean, I like turkey as much as the next guy, but does that mean I have to eat fourteen fucking pounds of the stuff just to stay in the family? It doesn't matter, there's gonna be leftovers either way. And for the next five months, it'll be turkey sandwiches, turkey soup, turkey fucking muffins, turkey pudding, turkey balls -- no, wait, Dad always eats that part -- anyway, I propose we eat the fucking turkey on August 19th, all right? Nobody will give a fuck, and those who do will figure out a way to barbecue the bastard. Make my Christmas dinner a quarter-pounder cheeseburger and a six-pack, I'm set.

Then, the biggest crock of bullshit going... Santa Claus. No, I'm not saying he doesn't exist. In fact, my distant cousin Toto from Nunavut has taken me to the big man's crib. But has no one questioned the fact that this fat bastard is going into your home on Christmas Eve? Come on... think about it for half a second. How does he eat all those fucking cookies? Answer: he doesn't. His jolly red sack, supposedly filled up to the brim with toys for all the boys and girls -- eh-eh -- it's empty when he starts out, and he gradually fills it with your Oreos and fucking Ho-Hos, which he feeds off of for the rest of the fucking year. "Now," you ask, "well, why does he bother coming to all those houses in the first place?" Well, other than the cookies and milk, jackass, he's out for some nookie. Let's think a little, kids. Ever notice how your dad miraculously seems to get absolutely fucking shitfaced on Christmas Eve, then he passes out in a heap in your fucking bathtub? Well, that's Phase I of Santa's Grand Plan. The first of December, he takes all his useless shit -- you know, like pennies he found under the couch cushions, Kathie Lee Gifford CDs, shit like that -- he takes all that shit to the nearest pawn shop, gets it cashed in -- now believe me, Santa's got a lot of useless shit lying around -- he takes that fat stack of green to the liquor store, and gets booze for all the good daddies. They drink it, pass out, we're on to Phase II. That being the filling of all your tiny, impressionable heads with the notion that you don't get shit unless you go to bed. Why the fuck do you think you always do what Dad says? It's 'cause he uses the same fucking Jedi Mind Trick that Santa does. Namely, scare the fuck out of you with idle threats of personal loss. Phase II complete. Santa shows up at the scene of the crime, pilfers the cookies, proceeds to fuck the living shit out of your mom. And why doesn't Mom do anything? Well duh, she thinks it's Daddy at first. Eventually, though, she'll figure it out, but hey... Santa's hung like a fucking racehorse, so Mom shuts her trap in exchange for the promise of annual return visits. And then, after a long night of cookies and nookie, Santa throws a few toys under your fucking Christmas tree, and hightails his ass back to the North Pole -- all the while whistling the theme song from "Chariots Of Fire" -- he shows up just in time to greet Mrs. Claus with a steaming plate of bacon and eggs and a red rose.

So you see, children, it all makes perfect sense; your hero is a nymphomaniac. Which reminds me -- if you're female and between the ages of 19 and 25, and enjoy romantic dinners, long walks on the beach, and Julia Roberts movies -- give me a call.

I'm Willie, and that's the way shit is. Thank you for your time, and have a merry Christmas.