Christmas was coming, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, even though it was the copy desk of a major metropolitan newspaper because we deploy the nerve toxin at the first hint of this goddamn opening cliché.
Remember, the background of every Christmas movie miracle is another thousand families in equally desperate circumstances who just weren’t quite good enough to get a last minute save. Their Christmases suck.
Every year at least one man starts giving out random presents in an attempt to assuage guilt after manslaughtering someone in a costume. He’s arrested before the New Year, but usually released into the care of his family due to guilt-induced mental incompetence causing him to believe he’s Santa, which turns out to be his best excuse yet for sitting around unemployed most of the year.
Repeat after me: there is no plant in the world which justifies sexual assault. Not even when it’s been killed, dismembered, and its young have been suspended from the roof as a trophy.
If your kid desperately needs one special toy or the holidays are totally ruined, holy crap, you screwed up raising that kid. That is the TV’s kid now.
If your mother or father still prefers to work over the holidays despite the fact you’re already fed, clothed, and live in a house large enough to accommodate multiple camera crews and tracking shots, take the bloody hint. Leave them in peace. Enjoy your new Xbone and PS4.
And don’t forget the greatest Christmas movie ever made.
London, Ontario, is a nice little down stuck with the most disappointing suffix in the English atlas. Announcing a trip to London, Ontario, means saying that you’re going to one of the most interesting and historical cities in the world, not really. It’s like saying that your job lets you live like a king, size meal, in that you stay in a cramped overheated box while your fate is decided by people who don’t care for the minimum possible prices.
My errands took me to King’s College. I got out of the taxi, saw a tortured emaciated man hanging from the side of the building, swore “Jesus Christ!” and realized I was right.
There are a couple ways you can go with the famous Christian cross. You can take the symbolic route, reducing it to two crossed lines, a clean and abstract shape which merely represents one of the most brutal methods of execution ever created. Or you can go with the full crucifixion, building a cross and then suspending a detailed carving of a dying figure in full public view. Here they’ve gone for the previously unknown third route: getting rid of any parts which aren’t experiencing excruciating death.
They’re actually counting on the fact that anyone who sees a floating near-naked avatar of pain will associate it with their religion.
Without the cross it’s not faith, it’s a genderbent Japanese horror movie. Complete with PG nipple-bandages.
The theme is toned down in the classrooms, where bright, professional lecture halls are only fitted with a standard wooden voudou-style fetishes of the publicly killed on the wall. Anyone teaching there is advised to arrive early so that they can hide the creepy capital punishment doll behind a lectern before any students see it.