“Good evening,” spewed forth the most corpulent pastor
Prepared with a bib for a dining disaster
He spoke to the kids upon which he’d fixated
Who, with some duct tape he’d affixed, quite elated
To a lonely and homely forlorn Christmas tree
For you see at this time of year ‘twas Christmas eve.

 The pastor was readied with fine brandies and wines
Drunkenly unable to maintain a straight line,
He tottered towards the stockings inside which were kept
A soldering iron and pliers, and leaped
Upon the poor children, who to him were just prey
Father Michael’s Christmas began merry and gay.

 But right at that instant, came a dreadful knocking
And down from the chimney fell a silver stocking
Inside which was a weapon; an explosive bomb
Which rang Pastor Franz’s eardrums like two gongs
Signaling that this Christmas things were to differ
As down from the chimney came a talking heifer.

“Cursed bovine, what for dost thou vexate me so?”
Cried the pastor who wept as his drywall leaked snow
The cow, in a homburg, spoke only the truth:
“Return these poor chilluns to George Herman Ruth!”
“He is dead,” said the Pastor, who knew all too well
The man known as Babe Ruth had no progeny dwell
In his home, and besides, it was two thousand eight
And these kids had not come from the ex-Yankee great.

 “Damn beast!” spat the pastor, to whom brandy supplied
A sense of profundity, bravery and pride
The cow looked quite shocked, this was a situation
In which it had flew across expansive nations
In order to confront the pastor so wicked
It seemed that the pastor had done gone and tricked it.

 The cow, knowing full well a drastic solution
Sat itself down upon the sofa’s best cushion
And said to the pastor, “Now, listen with fitness
And well you shall learn the true meaning of Christmas.”
The children all clamored, for they knew what was coming
Of Jesus, and mangers, and little boys drumming
The pastor’s red cheeks, with the brandy did quite glow
and ‘twas warm in the cottage despite all the snow.

 The cow told of wise men who came to the virgin
Of the wonderful Christ-child’s humble origin
The shepherds who sat in the fields ‘til first light
The angels on high who had caroled all night
The cow told a tale of unparalleled beauty
Of morals, and kindness, and strong sense of duty
The ending, properly, was Christ’s untimely death
Upon which the pastor drew a long shaky breath.

 The cow, simply said, “See ye why babes need to grow,
And why it is that now you must let these ones go.”
The pastor, for a moment quite unabated
The consequences of this action were weighted
And then from his wall he removed a large rifle
He shot the cow dead, and then ate without trifle.

Once upon a time, there was a wicked, horrible, twisted, nasty, drooling, icky man named Dick Cheney. He did not like happy people. Seeing the spirit of Christmas at work made him angry. He did not like good Christian sentiment. In fact, Dick Cheney was actually a nasty old Jew, who was still bitter about the whole “holocaust” thing. He did not like Santa. He did not like Jesus. He was a very naughty, wicked old man. On Christmas day, however, he saw his loyal dog, George, and he had a plan. “George, m’boy, I’m’ a git y’alls e-lected!” George liked the idea, just like he liked the warm, happy feelings he got when he had just peed in someones shoes. George was promptly put in charge of pulling Dick’s sleigh across the sky, in a top-secret mission to “incapacitate” Santa. George liked to pull sleighs, and with his shiny red nose, he would make a perfect headlight as well. Dick brought his special friend, Tom Delay along.

CHAPTER 2: THEY BEAT THE HELL OUT OF SANTY CLAUS

Now Tom Delay had a whip, and he beat the hell out of Santy Claus with it. The end. Don’t vote republican, or PEOPLE WILL DIE.

Entrance phases and their faces approach, with seeming unconcern for the fact that all around their weird tiny bodies they’re scorching the walls. BASTARDS. As if they cared they’re ruining my hearth and my home. Invading, quite literally, the last bastion of those who discern between the French and the Polish, who are different. To me.

 This is quite beside the point, isn’t it? We need more, many more so I can complete this finely woven tapestry of guilt. Once we’re done, there’ll be no more entrance whatsoever, in the verbal form. Well, obviously one might speak of it, but to commit entrance itself? Unthinkable.

A work of bigotry, this tapestry. Although one might be guilty about something other than bigotry (in deed and in thought I commonly am bigoted against those who I can’t understand, and only those who I can fully commit to looming over while they prostrate themselves beneath me. Thus being overstood, and not understood), it is the act of guilt which makes one a bigot against one’s self. Never be guilty, and thus be not ashamed. You are perfect. Unless you are me. I am guilty.

 But what sins have I committed that I care to acknowledge the sinfulness of to myself? Is it per haps true that I feel guilt over sinless actions? For if Frederick has truly killed God (“He is dead”), then who is to oversee my atonement? Must it be that every petty murder is bloodless on the hands of the Judge, who cannot exist without that vital juice, that most corporeal of evidence? If I am me without up or down, is there any place to hang my rug on the wall?

The Polish shall undoubtedly know. The French as well. For when furnishing invites itself in unannounced, they are quite moral people.

I, in my infinite wisdom, have decided to review the first line of John Denver's "Country Roads."

My detractors and debtors may claim that this is due to the fact that this is the only line that I can currently recall. However, as usual, they are just jealous of my amazing full head of hair.

That's no joke there. They are all balding baldesque bald freaks of baldery. On with the review! Or you'll lose your luxurient, tufty, feathered hair, just like that poor Scott Baio boy before he got cancer from a gay!

"West Virginia, almost heaven..."

These are the alleged lyrics. Alleged because nobody has ever really listened to that slobber-flecked mongoloid's radio-friendly unit shifter. Or have they? I guess if I'm going to review it, I should pretend I have.

Anyhow. Who in the hell believes Mr. Denver's ludicrous claim that West Virginia is even somewhat close to heaven? I'll tell you who. Yokels, simpletons, and people who have never actually been to West Virginia (except for me. I haven't. that's how horrible it is there.). In addition, Denver's unyielding belief in the astral qualities of coal minin' country is undermined by his own efforts to deify any other rural part of the country where they'll give him meth for free if he writes a song with its name in the title. Not that I'm casting slanderous aspersions on John Denver's character. You know why I'm not?

Because I'm not!!!!!

Ha! I bet you expected me to make comments about how he has no character to begin with, the preening rapist.

Okay, he's not a rapist just because he had unconsenting sex with a 12-year-old. After all, everything's legal in Honduras!

...in conclusion, you shouldn't get angry because I hate John Denver's music and I haven't listened to it. You should just be thankful the man took your warning, saw that you had a shotgun, and didn't write a song about your state/stayed away from your daughter. God knows I do.


And I am my own daughter!!!! ASAHAHASLDFKJAGLANG';ELRJWFLASDG!