What Christmas Songs Can We Still Listen To?

Christmas is almost here, everyone. Time to decorate the tree, bake some cookies, and kick back by the fire while listening to some tunes. You’ve probably got that fire going because it’s cold outside. But don’t listen to that classic ode to rape, ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside.’

After boycotting (and out-screaming anyone who says it isn’t about rape) that song, I began listening to a playlist of old hits. It turns out that the biggest war on Christmas has already arrived in the form of classic Christmas music.

Read the lyrics of any Christmas song, and if you look hard enough, you’ll see that all of them refer to some kind of illicit activity. The following list is by no means comprehensive. Feel free to comment below with your own discoveries.

Here are the most obvious allusions to criminal activity that I found:

–All I Want For Christmas Is You. A crystal clear nod to sex trafficking.

–Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Thinly-veiled commie ballad.

–Let it Snow. Cocaine.

–I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. Alt-right white supremacy. And also cocaine.

–O Holy Night. Secret slang in the world of cocaine users (cocaine is snorted through holes).

–O Little Town of Bethlehem. Way before Jesus became Bethlehem’s most famous export, this little town produced a large amount of blow.

–Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. Hmm, let’s see. Grandma drinks to much eggnog and decides she’s going to walk home? Any old person worth their salt would fall asleep, and that’s before the powerful effects of eggnog set in. See where this is going? You guessed it—Grandma took a few zips of nose candy and unwittingly wandered right into Santa’s flight path.

–Back Door Santa. I just found out about this song, and boy am I one steaming little cup of decaf. At first, I believed it to be about anal sex (I heard some youth at Target use the term), but then I remembered that a lot of cocaine arrives in this country via little balloons packed full of white lightning, which are then inserted into the rear end (back door) of the intended mule.

–Mele Kalikimaka. This is simply what comes out when someone who is coked to the gills tries to say ‘Merry Christmas.’

So this Christmas season, you may as well skip right ahead to Easter music. I recommend the Rolling Stones, who named themselves after the stone that was rolled away from the tomb of Jesus.

Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

Moses And His Migrant Caravan Blown To Smithereens By US Military

In a pretty cool fusion of current events and biblical lore, the prophet Moses (who killed a guy one time) and his migrant caravan were blown to smithereens as they arrived at the US border, ending their 40-year journey through the desert with a bang.

After leaving Egypt—a major shithole—the caravan just kind of wafted through the wilderness and for the purposes of this story landed in the Mexican desert. Fox News believers looked on with horror as a convoy chock full of Middle Easterners made its way towards US soil.

Anyways, as the immigrants strolled up to the Texas border, the US military carried out the true hope of Donny and his followers, and blew the whole shebang to smithereens.

That’s pretty close to how it went down in the Bible, right?

 

The Best Tuscan Chicken Recipe

Don’t you hate when you click on a recipe, only to find not a recipe, but some blowhard going on and on about their Italian grandmother’s journey to the United States, and how all she had was two Sicilian dollars and her recipe book to get through the boat ride? And how the boat sank and she swam to shore, now broke, and the only recipe that survived was one for Tuscan Chicken? Fast forward a few years, and now the grandmother (who wasn’t a grandmother at this point in the story) is slangin’ hash for 25 cents a week, while at night she climbs to the roof of her tenement, gazing east towards home, trying to recall all those lost recipes, but still taking comfort in the fact that she at least still has her Tuscan Chicken. Then one day after work, a Wednesday to be exact, because she cooks Tuscan Chicken every Wednesday, a really hot guy follows the scent up the the grandmother’s door and knocks. People were still really sexist back then, so the guy is like “Hey, you’re gonna be my wife and cook that for me.” She says ‘yes’ and they get married. The guy’s misogynist patterns only continue. The years pass, and she begins to resent Tuscan Chicken, because it has now become a symbol of her oppression. She vows to make a change. Next Wednesday, she makes the Tuscan Chicken, true to the recipe, as always. Except for one minor addition—-POISON(and also some of her pee)!!!! They sit down for dinner, and she secretly pulls out a piece of pee-and-poison-free chicken for herself so she can eat without her husband becoming suspicious. Fifteen minutes later, the guy is barfing and crapping everywhere. Next thing you know, he’s dead, and the grandmother ends up in jail. Ten years into her sentence, she finally gets a job in the prison kitchen for 25 cents per month. She still remembers Tuscan Chicken. The prison kitchen doesn’t have the ingredients for it. The head of the prison says it’s not in the budget. So she sleeps with him. It turns out he was lying when he told her that if she slept with him he would have the ingredients brought in. So she poisons him and escapes. I think this is how she became pregnant. Anyways, now she’s an ex-convict single mother who has killed two people. Tuscan Chicken helps her forget all that.

It’s usually about this point in the story that the person actually gives you the recipe, and it’s really annoying that they could have just put it right at the top. It’s rather vexing. Now, you came here for a Tuscan Chicken recipe, didn’t you? Cook some chicken and pour Italian seasoning on it.

Life Objective: Land A Spot On The Writing Staff Of Dr. Oz

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Dr. Oz writing room. No—to be a person on a chair in that writing room.

To make the cut on the Dr. Oz show, you’ve got to know a thing. The thing being, of course, redundancy. When you send the esteemed Dr. Mehmet Oz out into that standing-room-only-lioness-den-and-also-television-studio packed to the brim with bored, middle-aged women, he better be stuffed up to his beady little eyes with tips on how to lose weight.

If not, upon you will the harem of Oz feast.

So, if anyone from the Dr. Oz camp happens to be reading this, I went ahead and drafted a spec script:

Dr. Oz, returning from commercial: “Welcome back ladies, yes, I am a real doctor.” He pauses here to allow swooning. “Now, let’s get right to it: who wants to lose weight?”

Audience: “MEEEEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”

Oz: “Okay then. I’ve got a secret to share, something no other doctor will ever tell you. Quick survey: how many of you eat a cheeseburger and French fries every day? Show of hands.”

Everyone raises their hand.

Oz: “Did any of you know that a diet like that is actually bad for you?”

Everyone looks around in disbelief.

Oz: “It’s true, it’s true. What if I told you that, instead of eating a cheeseburger and fries every day, you will lose weight if you eat broccoli and rice instead?”

The audience collectively bows down to The Oz: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

Dr. Oz: “And here’s a bonus tip—it’s also healthier to drink water instead of soda!”

Everyone is now spasming and speaking in tongues.

Dr. Oz: “And one more thing before we go: if you exercise instead of sitting on your couch, your metabolism will speed up!”

Something like scales fall from upon every eye in the audience. A massive rebirth has taken place. They all go forth into the world, ready to turn their lives around. However, in the time between the end of the show and the next morning, all of these brutal truths are washed away by one last binge, followed by the intoxicating coma that comes after eating a box of Cosmic Brownies….

Tomorrow, Dr. Oz replaces cheeseburger with hot dog. Broccoli becomes spinach. Water is now decaffeinated green tea. No one notices.

The unstoppable Oz cash cow continues to feast upon itself.

Ouroboros.

 

 

 

If #AllLivesMatter, That Means I Can Do Whatever I Want With This Dead Guy, Right?

I recently read on the internet that all lives matter. Read: since only things with lives matter, that automatically means that anything without life, any object lacking that essential élan vital, is second class scum and not worthy of our time. All of this pleases me, ‘cuz I’ve got this dead guy.

This dead guy does not matter one bit. It’s right there in the hashtag. That gives me the go-ahead to really go to town on this corpse. Sex. I didn’t say it. You were thinking it. Anyways, there are a lot of non-sexual things you can do with a worthless body that just wouldn’t fly with a live person. I plan to stab it first. After that, I’m going to throw it off my balcony and see if it explodes on the concrete below.

That’s it. That’s all I want to do with the dead guy.

 

Thousands of Perfect Little Minnesotans Angry At Blair Walsh

It’s been a rough week for perfect Minnesotans. The superior breed is really letting Blair Walsh have it after the Vikings kicker missed a 27-yard field goal near the end of the team’s 10-9 loss to the Seattle Seahawks. Here are thoughts on Blair Walsh from people who have never made a (televised) mistake in their lives:

“Kickers make that 27-yarder 99% of the time. People are going to remember this for years to come,” said a cow milker who one time couldn’t figure out how to open a condom wrapper, and instead of using the 99% effective rubber birth control device, decided to have unprotected sex and now has to make child support payments for years to come.

“I could have made that,” claimed a vending machine repairman, whose bathroom floor is puddled with urine that never made it into the toilet.

“He stinks,” said an out-of-work dog whisperer who never learned to wipe properly and is perpetually surrounded by a faint poopy smell.

“Little purple gnome miss point and I mad,” said a camouflage enthusiast who does not fully understand English, his first and only language.

“He didn’t focus,” observed a fast food connoisseur who bit her own finger off after thinking it was part of a batch of chicken fries.

“I like to drag my ass on the carpet. Like a dog,” said a guy who likes to drag his ass on the carpet like a dog.

Fun With Pharmaceuticals

There are perks to being a blogger. We have this unique platform that enables us to let our voices be heard, and sometimes a guy in suit from something called Big Medicine approaches you with a sack covered in dollar signs saying that he’d like you to talk about the greatest drug for high blood pressure ever created, and you tell him you’ll never sell out, and then he shows you that there’s actually money in the sack, so you say you’ll take the offer.

Even though that happened, it had no influence over my decision to talk to you today about Fluvalipitorbrate™, the best boner medicine to hit the market in years.

You see, sometimes in order to lower your cholesterol, or whatever this stuff does, you need to make sacrifices, like only having one functioning kidney. You have two for a reason, so it’s not much of a sacrifice anyways. And—this is according to Big Medicine—comas brought on by Fluvalipitorbrate™ are actually healthy, because it gives your body a chance to rest and recover from the ulcers and painful full-body burning sensations that led to the coma in the first place. Plus, you won’t be conscious for the bloody diarrhea. Sounds like Fluvalipitorbrate™ is doing you a solid there.

When you come out of the coma, which 65% of people do, you’re going to have some suicidal thoughts. But that’s only because you’re mad at yourself for not taking Fluvalipitorbrate™ years ago, when it was still causing men to grow massive breasts. You’ll cheer up when they give you a jar full of your teeth and then find that all the hair on your body has fallen off, which will help you swim very fast, once your muscles grow back.

Then you’re on the home stretch to a major testosterone boost, which is what this drug is all about. After you fight off the minor bouts with bi-polar disorder, diabetes, necrotizing fasciitis, and halitosis, you can tell all your friends (through sign language, if you still have lockjaw) about Fluvalipitorbrate™ and how it changed your life.

For more info, ads for Fluvalipitorbrate™ can be found in Men’s Health magazine, or on our infomercial that airs from 3-4 every Thursday morning (it’s the one with happy men golfing and a voiceover talking extremely fast about internal bleeding and bones turning to dust).

 

 

 

 

 

Minnesotans Enjoy National Attention Stemming From Death of Scott Weiland

Minnesota is a place that celebrates itself, and for good reason. The humble folks here work hard, and they will not hesitate to fling insults at you, after you’ve left, if you say otherwise. One small town here, Austin, produced both Spam and John Madden. We’re influencers in the arts, too—one DJ on local station The Current (an entity that transcends the greatness of Minnesota itself, according to The Current) went so far as to take credit for Arcade Fire’s 2011 Grammy win because he quote, “played their music on The Current.”

Now, The North Star State has earned yet another feather in its already dangerously over-plumed cap, and Minnesotans are absolutely loving the mentions their state is receiving in the national press.

Musician Scott Weiland was recently found dead on his tour bus in Bloomington, right by the biggest and best mall in America, The Mall of America. After some obligatory somber Facebook posts commemorating the fallen star, Minnesotans cheered right up after hearing the word ‘Minnesota’ on multiple nationwide news outlets.

I recently hit the streets to ask one question to these pasty, lake-loving folk: What do you think of Scott Weiland’s passing? Here are their responses.

“I think it adds to the rich history of this state. Great things happen here, like when Larry Craig tried to solicit gay sex in the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport bathroom. And just last summer, Walter Palmer, a Minnesotan dentist, killed Cecil the lion. Now we’ve got this.”

“Scott has always loved Minnesota; he’s been coming here for over twenty years, fer chrissakes. At the end of an STP show back in ’95, he said, and I quote, “I love you, Minneapolis! You guys are the best!” The show was actually in St. Paul, but Scott always had a quirky sense of humor. Think about that for a minute. Scott Weiland, a man who has travelled the globe, said that he loves us, and that we are the best. Wow. It’s humbling.”

“I wonder what Prince has to say about this. Prince is from Minnesota. That’s why I’m wondering what Prince thinks. Because he’s from Minnesota. If Prince wasn’t from Minnesota, I wouldn’t give a runny dump what he thought. But because Prince is from Minnesota, I love everything about him. Did I mention that Prince is from Minnesota, and that if he wasn’t from Minnesota, his music would suck?”

“Oh god, this is tragic. I hope someone was there to hear his last words. I bet they were about Minnesota.”

“The deaths of Philip Seymour Hoffman and Robin Williams really tore me up, because they didn’t die in Minnesota. It’s so cliché to die in New York or LA. What was the question?”

“Scott Weiland? I’m not familiar, but I did hear you mention Minnesota. If I could say some things about Minnesota: it has everything, the arts, good schools, steady economy. Also, some of the most racist people I’ve ever met live here.”

“Yeah, I’ll give Weiland credit for being something of a rock legend, but nothing will ever top the Replacements or Hüsker Dü. Now those were bands. They were all drunken assholes and I couldn’t name one of their songs, but they’re from Minnesota, so I love ’em.”

“The Rolling Stones were here over the summer, and I was hoping and praying one of them would kick the bucket before they left town, maybe from heat stroke, plain old age, or cardiac arrest attributed to an espresso blast from one of our esteemed independent coffee shops. That would’ve been huge for Minnesota. I think Slayer is coming to town soon. Those guys have got to be getting pretty old, right?”

There you have it. You can’t beat Minnesota. But don’t move here, unless you’re already a Minnesotan.

 

 

 

Black Friday Comes But Once A Year

Too much focus has been put on the consumerism surrounding Thanksgiving week in recent years. The holiday is a time for family. For food. For fellowship. For football. No one should have to leave their gathering and go to work at eight in the evening on Thanksgiving just to get ready for a midnight Black Friday sale, unless, of course, that person works at the store selling the sick 72 inch TV I need in my garage.

Doctors work at hospitals on holidays. Pushing logically forward, this means that those in retail should always be available so that we can buy Stuff whenever we want, for without Stuff, we are nothing more than wild animals. Would you like to be a wild animal, living outdoors, biting and scratching and fighting for the scraps of a shredded rabbit carcass, or a human being, shopping inside, biting and scratching and fighting for the scraps at the bottom of a DVD bargain bin? In nature, when that carcass is gone, it’s gone, but on Black Friday, we have people who were forced to abandon their families that will replenish that dumpster full of NCIS DVDs while you push your thumb deep into a fellow Mark Harmon fan’s eye.

Police and paramedics are available every day of the year, too, so why do you think you shouldn’t have to clock in for a twelve-hour overnight shift, Mr. I-don’t-want-to-work-holidays-retail-guy-who-is-being-paid-almost-ten-dollars-an-hour? Just imagine if the police didn’t feel like working on Black Friday. Who would quell the riots that Black Friday causes?

Anyways, the first Thanksgiving was nothing more than a prelude to massive land theft and genocide. Is that what we want to celebrate? Methinks not! Erase the pain and terrible memories of Manifest Destiny by giving your money to a large corporation in the middle of the night! Exercise civility and engage in hand-to-hand combat with your fellow man (preferably of the same race) on the way into Walmart and then pay for the ensuing spoils. Time was, you would’ve given that same man a blanket dosed with smallpox and then turned his ancestral homeland into a tobacco farm. Being a part of Black Friday is being a part of the evolution of mankind.

It’s also one of those neat times where you can go plum wild, and no one can get mad at you.

For instance, on what other day of the year can I drink coffee all night and have seven hours of shopping in before the sun rises? When else is it perfectly acceptable to ram your shopping cart into the nuts of yuppies and vagrants alike, whether they’re stumbling around with a 75 lb. case of upscale dog food, or simply trying to get out of the cold? In June, why is it not OK for me to trample a seven year-old child that is standing where I want to be, but the day after Thanksgiving, people form a circle and cheer me on? On Black Friday, even people in wheelchairs aren’t off-limits, because who’s to say it’s not just a wily disguise to get preferential treatment? How can I be so thankful for what I have on Thanksgiving, but when midnight strikes, my face becomes disfigured, I let out an otherworldly howl, and I become a ravenous beast that needs to buy things that have been available every other day of the year during normal waking hours?

Hell, I don’t know. Probably some instinctual hangover from our Neanderthal days. If only those ancestors could see me now, belittling retail workers, breathing in the sweaty farts of strangers, and replacing the great sadness I feel inside with Stuff.

Ditch The Ice Buckets And Hop Aboard The Ebola Barf Challenge

ALS is a disease. Who it affects, I do not know. What the letters stand for, I can only guess. Celebrities are talking about it. Why? Maybe because there is no point in giving to charity if people don’t know you are doing it. But there is one thing I do know for sure about the condition. It is horrible, and must be stopped.

Luckily, we already have a cure—if you are a normal person, dump a bucket of water over your head on a hot summer day. If you are a celebrity, make a public announcement that you have a lot of money. Uncomfortable, yes, but it doesn’t leave a scar and you get to keep all your hair. I for one didn’t even realize I knew this many people who were battling ALS, which is why they call it The Silent Killer. It has been such a joy watching my friends and family being healed right before my eyes. If only this cure had been discovered 25 years ago. A lot of pain could have been prevented.

Ebola.

That brings us to the next “hot” disease of the moment—Ebola. It too ravages the human body in unimaginable ways, by attacking some pretty trendy organs. Organs that most people know about. This is huge in the disease community, as you don’t have to sit around and explain what necrotized tissue is, or why polythelia is such a problem for today’s youth. Nope, none of that with Ebola. We’re talking strictly liver and kidneys here. All-American meat-and-potato organs. And the best part is, Ebola is 100% curable, just like ALS. People do not know this.

This is why I am here to start The Ebola Barf Challenge. The name explains it all: simply film yourself barfing—in your yard, on a friend, on yourself, on your pet, anywhere you see fit—tag it on Facebook as #EbolaBarf and then challenge three of your friends to do the same within 24 hours. How does this stop Ebola? It’s a good thing you asked, because I wouldn’t want you to blindly jump on a fad without knowing what it’s all about.

Ebola can’t get in your body if you barf. It’s that simple. Barfing is like the body’s bouncer. Ebola is like an artificially tanned guy wearing white-rimmed sunglasses inside a bar at night. So the big, meaty bouncer (your barf) walks right up to the douche (Ebola) and tosses him out.

But sometimes the douche (Ebola) comes back. This is why it is imperative that you barf at least four times. That is how easy Ebola gives up! It gets barfed out of a body four times, and it quits! It’s weaker than the flu.

Please join me in this challenge; it is the only way we can band together and stamp out Ebola.

Once Ebola is extinct, we can film ourselves eradicating a number of other serious diseases that have recently become treatable—AIDS is cured when you drink your own crotch sweat, Lupus goes away when you rub raw fecal matter on your upper lip, and homosexuality reverses when you man up and touch a woman’s boobs (guys) or jiggle a guy’s weener around (girls).

Film yourself doing these things, and then put it on the internet so that everyone knows you are a generous, caring person, and be sure to only mention how much money you donated if it is over $1000, or risk being branded as a cheapskate.