Santa squeezed down the chimney and when he turned around he was surprised by two little children standing below him, 5-year old Sarah and her little brother James.  “You scared the shit out of me!” said Santa.

“Santa, my mother says you shouldn’t use those kind of words,” said Sarah.

“Maybe your mother should stop fucking her co-worker Bob before she starts doling out ethical advice,” snapped Santa.

“What does ‘doling’ mean?” asked little James.

“It means your mother’s a whore,” said Santa.

“We have these cookies and milk for you, Santa,” said Sarah excitedly. James immediately joined into her excitement.

“Are these homemade?” asked Santa.

“No, they’re Chips Ahoy,” said Sarah.

“If you think you’re going on the ‘Nice’ list giving Santa store-bought cookies you have another thing coming,” said Santa, dropping the plate of cookies, which shattered into a dozen pieces. “Hope I don’t wake up your mother,” he added almost to himself.

“She’s passed out drunk, saying that she was mad at my father not being able to take us kids this weekend. She did that before dinner and we haven’t eaten since lunch,” said Sarah.

“Oh really?” said Santa. “James, take those cookies and take them to your bedroom and eat them. Sarah and I are going to have a little talk.” James excitedly gathered the cookies up from the floor and couldn’t wait and took a bite out of one on the way to his room. Santa now alone with Sarah knelt down to get to her level. “So you’re mother’s a drunk, huh?”

“I don’t know about that but she definitely drinks more than I like. She says it’s to settle her nerves from taking care of us kids,” answered Sarah.

“How would you like it if I made it so your mother no longer drank?” asked Santa.

“I would really like that!” exclaimed Sarah. “That would be the best present you could give me!”

“Where’s her bedroom?” asked Santa. “I have to spread some magic fairy dust on her to stop her drinking problem.”

“It’s up the stairs, second door on the left,” instructed Sarah and Santa went on his way.

It was about 15-minutes and Santa still hadn’t returned. Sarah figured that maybe he had gotten lost on the way and so she ventured up the stairs. The door to her parent’s room was slightly ajar and Sarah pushed her way into it. What she saw was her mother lying on the bed with her nightgown pulled up to her waist and Santa with his red trousers around his ankles pushing himself against her repeatedly in a bumping sort of motion.

“Santa, what are you doing?” asked Sarah. “Is my mother alright?”

Without stopping his bump and grind Santa said,“She has crossed into Heaven, my dear, and Santa was stuffing fairy dust in her so that she would come back to you and your brother. Just give Santa another—oh yeah here it comes—another few seconds and he should be finished with his work. Magic fairy dust I summon you to heal this woman—OH YEAH! OOOOHHH, JESUS CHRIST!”

“Are you alright, Santa?” asked Sarah concerned.

“I’m fine. It’s just that this resuscitation work takes a lot out of Santa.”

“Is my mommy going to be okay?” asked Sarah, now starting to well up with tears.

“She’s gonna be fine, kid. She’s alive. Santa saved her. But I’m afraid Santa couldn’t work on her drinking issue this time as more pressing issues were at hand.”

“Thanks, Santa! This is the best Christmas ever!” said Sarah.

“Now why don’t you go to your brother’s room and see if he’s left any of Santa’s cookies for you,” said Santa. “Santa’s got a lot of other children’s houses to go to and your mother needs some alone time to recover. After a good night’s sleep she will be just fine.”

“I will Santa.” Sarah, unable to control her emotions, went to Santa and gave one of his bare legs a hug.

“You go now, honey. You have to be at least 18 to get any of Santa’s fairy dust—16 in Nebraska—and I’m sure it’s way past your bedtime,” said Santa pulling Sarah off of his legs and then his pants up.

Sarah ran through the door and just as Santa was cleaning himself off with the bed sheet she popped her head back inside the room. “Merry Christmas, Santa!”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ—I mean, Merry Christmas, dear.”

It was a Christmas night that Sarah would never forget…and her mother would never recall.

© November 29, 2011

I try to sing my heart’s song

But I have forgotten the tune

And I only seem to remember some of the words

.

I listen to the music of others

Seeing if they can inspire me

To find the musician

In the chamber of my heart

Playing his “chamber” music

Most of what I hear is just cheap imitation

Samplings of masters dead

But because these maestros are rotting in the ground

The music forever bound to them sounds rotten to my ears

.

Hours on end

Days pass into weeks

I flip the stations

From country to rock n roll to metal

Searching for the one song that is mine

That sings my body

Makes it whistle down a nature trail like a flute

Overwhelming me with its musical fragrance

.

But all I hear is a dull echo

Of a tune that is too faint to pump my blood

And put a skip in my step

And a smile on my face

.

And life without music is a violin without a violinist—

Endless potential to fill the air with butterfly notes

But no wind song to carry them skyward

.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LcxYwwIL5zQ

(Zip-A-Dee-Doo Dah song)

.

.

.

They want to take me

To a place where I am gone

Rather kill myself

.

.

Friend is mad at me

For mentioning my big cock

She should just suck it!

.

.

entering subway

in the car or on the tracks

makes no difference

.

.

Sitting at the Master’s feet

His pen scribbles frantically

Trying to capture Enlightenment like a butterfly

.

In front of him is his mind

Acting as translator

Speaking the language of interpretation

.

By the time he re-reads his notes

The mind’s high has worn off

No longer drunk from imbibing euphoria

Through the clear straw of the Master

.

Through an amateur alchemist

His words are transmuted into action

But this fool’s gold

Is a worthless imposter

Lacking the luster of the original

Even it’s sparkle is dull

.

Sitting at the Master’s feet

Drowned out by the noise of his personal crowd

The Master’s silence cannot be heard

Putting down the net

He watched the butterfly dance—

And caught it at last!

.

The last time I saw a green schwanz like that I was blowing Kermit The Frog!

.

My cock is in hand

Woops–there goes my erection!

Just handful of balls

.

.

Home feels best to me

All my sharp knives in the drawer

Ready to kill me

.

.

Without my girlfriend

Life has no meaning for me

Shouldn’t have killed her

.

A common fantasy for a man, besides the one involving a donkey and a gallon of lube, is to have a woman who is a angel in the outside world and a complete whore in the bedroom. A few years back I met Carny and from all outward appearances she seemed to be an angel on the outside, so I figured that I was halfway to Hetero Heaven. It wasn’t until we were in the bedroom one night when I was on top of her that she opened her mouth and removed all doubt that I had finally arrived to the Promised Land and I didn’t even have to strap a bomb vest to myself like my Muslim faith dictates as a passport to virgins and rivers of wine.

I had just said something like, “I really care about you and would like to take care of you. Would you like me to rub your feet or prepare a bath for you?” to which she replied, “Spit in my mouth.” I never had anyone say this to me besides the man in the trench coat who used to sit next to me at the gay movie theater, which showed double features on Sundays to which half the audience would leave midway through the second film and they had to get to prepare the final touches on their sermons for church that day. As this was my first intimate salivary experience with someone who was not a pedophile priest, I wanted to make it memorable.

I cleared my throat and nasal passages with the biggest snorty, coughing throat clear I could and spit a thick, yellow goober right into her eye; this was more the result of poor aim than it was due to any lack of anatomical understanding.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she shouted as she pushed me off of her. Thankfully my Sobakawa buckwheat pillow that I got through an infomercial was there to break my fall. It really is quite supportive and a much better purchase than that Pube Wacker that was supposed to be able to style my groinal region as well as trim the hedges of my yard.

“You said ‘Spit in my mouth’ so I was just—“

“I said ‘in my mouth,’ moron, not in my eye!” she sweetly explained. “And by ‘spit’ I meant the saliva that was in your mouth, not the darkest, grossest gob you could cough up from your lungs! Why not just pick your nose and flick it into my mouth?”

She seemed a tad irate and so I wanted to be careful with my response. “Okay, so we don’t have any confusion: are you asking me to pick my nose and flick it into your mouth or was that just a metaphor of sorts?”

“You’re unbelievable!”

“And by ‘unbelievable’ do you mean that I am an incredible guy or that I am an idiot, because I rather not thank you if you are calling me an idiot?”

“The latter.”

“Great. I think I’m getting you. Just one more: by ‘latter” do you mean one of those things firemen climb or—“

“Just shut up, Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” she interrupted and while I have a problem with someone using the Lord and Savior’s name in vain, I decided to be the better man and let her comment slide without commentary. I decided I would later go to church to atone for my sins of goobery and visit some of the old crew from Sticky Seats Theater.

In conclusion, I was psyched to be involved with someone who was both an angel and a whore but I felt her communication skills could have be improved.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V-fQ32qz4d0