Capture The Kringle

The gayest yuletime is upon us. Cursed are we, as Mother Earth has shown her disdain for us as of late with icy winds and plain ice as well. I know what you're thinking; fuck Mother Earth. My friend, you are correct. If I had my way, I'd rip this crusty old bitch a new orifice. Alas, I'm just one man.

And that's not all this godless season brings about: the yuletime brings about Yules like there's no tomorrow. I hate the holidays. Every day I don't have to talk to some old skank my Grandpa picked up during WWII is a good one. Xmas is the one day where I actually can't do anything about this obligation. But don't call me lazy; I've tried, man. Last year I gave my Grandmother my Grandfather. Of course, my Grandfather had been dead for two years, so he was looking a little malnourished. Also, dragging him up from the brittle birthing canal of Frau Gaia left him a little grass-stained, but other than that, he was in reasonable condition for a used gift. But did that piss off my Grandma enough to leave me alone? Hell no. The bitch refuses to die. This year, I'm giving her a gun and one bullet, alongside a note that says 'GO DIE'. I'm hoping she won't remember I gave that to her for her birthday as well.

But the worst part of Xmas is that fat white faggot Santa. I hate you, Santa. Or should I call you Claus? Sounds like someone's got a little German in him. You know who else was German? Hitler. Just saying.

Each year that blob of bright red gaiety (not 'happiness' gaiety either; the fruitcake gaiety) forcibly penetrates our homes in search of children whom he can titillate and tantalize with gifts and very phallic candy canes so that he can gain their trust. That's all well and good until he starts to abuse that trust. Suddenly, Santa arrives twice a year, this time without any presents. Seems Claus is a little light on rent. Maybe you could help him out? Soon, he's knocking on your door once a month, looking for food and money, and oh by the way is your daughter eighteen yet? He's a boil that needs to be removed from the buttcheeks of this great country. Please note that this has nothing to do with the Xbox 360 he gypped me out of a few years back, or the painful humiliation associated with buying my own goddamn Xbox. No, this hatred, like most of mine, is derived from my childhood.

I was a spry, youthful seven year old when I decided to kidnap Claus. After all, what child doesn't want to blackmail and extort a jolly old elf into giving him free toys? So I sat in front of the fireplace with my dad's Winchester .357, just sort of cleaning it, and loading it, and laying on my back in the flue and pointing it up the chimney. Y'know, kid's stuff. The fat bastard stood me up. Homo. The only person I got to shoot that Xmas was my Dad, who dressed up like Claus and snuck up on me. Big mistake, Dad.

So this year, as you suffer through torments unspeakable during this most Brutal Yule, I ask my loyal followers (that's you, chubby) to help me murder Claus once and for all. Put bear traps in your fireplaces, hide pungee stakes under your tree, and stick a few live Wolverines in your stockings. This year, let's band together and end the madness. This year, we CAPTURE THE KRINGLE!