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.

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THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM THE PAGE “LET THE DEAD BURY THE DEAD.” FOR THE FULL PIECE, PLEASE GO TO:

http://rebelyogi.com/let-the-dead-bury-the-dead

(Comments can be left here)

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“Jesus said unto him, Let the dead bury their dead: but go thou and preach the kingdom of God.”

—Luke 9:60, King James Bible (Cambridge Edition)

Why is it so important that we “make our mark,” that our legacy lives on, that we achieve some form of fame, even if it is only on a local level as the girl who had the biggest North Star zit? When I showed my mother the short poem I wrote called “When The Day Comes” [http://rebelyogi.com/when-the-day-comes.html] about leaving no trace of yourself when you depart from this world, she responded with something like, “That’s not what we want—we want to leave an impression.” Why?

My sister-in-law’s father has said to his grandkids such things as,“Remember this about me when I am no longer here”; I assume he meant when he is dead and not just out of the room. Why? Why should you influence what these independent souls think in the future? It’s bad enough that you try to nag and control them into obedience as a mini-you while you are alive, perhaps sickly inspired by the Austin Power: The Spy Who Shagged Me, but after your dead as well?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tkmi_UTsjtE&feature=fvst

It’s because you fear death and have given up any hope of finding Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth but instead think you can have a touch of immortality by planting tumors of memories in the younger generation. Just leave the little bastards alone and die!

© 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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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

(Zip-A-Dee-Doo Dah song)

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[AS OPPOSED TO HOW I USUALLY POST HERE WHEN I HAVE A LONGER PIECE TO SHARE, GIVING YOU THE BEGINNING OF THE PIECE AS A TEASER AND THEN SENDING YOU TO THE "PAGES" TO READ THE REST, THIS IS THE END OF THE PIECE. I'VE BYPASSED MOST OF THE "NONSENSE" AND WENT RIGHT TO THE "ENLIGHTENING." MAYBE THIS WILL MAKE YOU TO READ IT TWICE--OR NOT AT ALL.]

FOR THE FULL PIECE GO TO:

http://rebelyogi.com/swami-x-eats-the-meat

(Comments can be left here)

I used to have a pattern of taking everything to extremes. While others were becoming vegetarian, I was looking into how to become a breathearian. “Enjoying your carrot sticks? Yeah, that is a bit heavy for me. But I must say, this air in here is just delightful!” When my friends started to shave their faces, I would shave my whole body. “If you saw the movie ‘Powder’ you’d friggin’ get it.” While others were seeking to get laid, I sought to be laid from a chicken. After rupturing a few hens’ rectums with a shoehorn, I gave up on this dream and relegated my shoehorn solely for tongue depressing. And it’s worked, my tongue, once happy and carefree, has every since been depressed.

My vegan dogmatism resulted in me not having a winter coat for a couple of years because the huge and heavy warm coat my Dad handed me down had a few tiny strips of leather around the sleeves. It resulted in me throwing out or donating anything that had a touch of animal on or in it, including my detachable Rollerblades that were totally convenient for me to convert to boots and go into stores that don’t allow you to roll down their aisles—which is most—and then pop on my wheels and roll to my next destination with ease because one day rolling I looked down and realized the boot was made out of suede and while I never ate suede, I would be damned if I would support the slaughter of a flock of suede with my rolling advertisement. By the time I realized the error of my ways these Rollerblades were discontinued.

Not to mention it slightly inhibited my ability to enjoy a time out with friends, as I was constantly “boycotting” that restaurant for serving foie gras and protesting that store because they sold fur. I even dropped wearing my 9/11 WAS AN INSIDE JOB T-shirts and sweatshirt and talking about this obvious FACT as I grew tired of ruining dinners.

Whether you are committed to a job or justice, a cause or country, and sometimes even a person, usually you are just one step from being committed to an asylum. I rather cut out the middleman and just submit myself to a loony bin where I can blow spittle bubbles and smear my shit on the walls with reckless abandon.

I have come to a point where I have questioned if following anything—be it a religion or eating pattern—in a fundamentalist way does not make you free…but only a douche. Forgetting what it does to others—from burka’ed beaten Islamic women, to pedophile priests, from book burning bastards to President I’madoucheandfag of Iran proudly declaring that there are no gays in Iran after his gay burning Bonfire of the Faggeties—what does it do to the individual?

The individual soul is already trapped by it’s jailer—the Ego’s identification with the body’s shape and sex, religion, means of employment and thoughts and beliefs—to add one more steel-tipped Doc Martin wearing guard at the gates of the jail cell is not going to help one liberate himself from the jail of self-identity. I made the declaration that I would extricate myself from my jail cell at all costs—even if that meant leaving it in a body bag—as even with the pleasant curtains and Hindu goddess wall hangings of the New Age, living in a jail cell is no life for a free soul but just another trick of the Ego to keep you from seeing that the prison guards and walls and bars are INTOLERABLE.

What is harder for most to see is that the prison guards and walls and bars are not outside obstructions to freedom but are built and maintained by one’s own continually fed identification system with his small self. The only hope for freedom is to abandon your inheritance of a religion, a belief system, a moral code based on dead men printed in dead books and to be born again, coming out of the Universe’s beautiful womb and realizing that you are the Lord and “there is no other.”

“I am the LORD, and there is no other; apart from me there is no God. I will strengthen you, though you have not acknowledged me.”

—Isaiah 45:5, New International Version

“And let me declare my one Law: Only Mormons are getting into Heaven.”

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They want to take me

To a place where I am gone

Rather kill myself

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Friend is mad at me

For mentioning my big cock

She should just suck it!

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entering subway

in the car or on the tracks

makes no difference

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Sitting at the Master’s feet

His pen scribbles frantically

Trying to capture Enlightenment like a butterfly

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In front of him is his mind

Acting as translator

Speaking the language of interpretation

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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

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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

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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!

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

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My cock is in hand

Woops–there goes my erection!

Just handful of balls

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Home feels best to me

All my sharp knives in the drawer

Ready to kill me

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