There really is nothing terribly fun or funny about the Christmas gig. You must be thought a pederast, or why would you take it? Beautiful women pass their children over, and none of them wants bald with beard with overbelted stomach. Yet you can be removed from the game, spectating eternally the wonder. I want I want I want I want with Mommy bending over.
It's just another sort of keeping score, with tokens of love nor money. Earnest fandom, warpaint faces screaming love for their home team and even they can't take themselves that seriously, except for yelling fuck on cellphones with children around. Aw, who cares now? It's only all in sport.
Unwrapping presence for genuine surprise if it were there, the trued love stood in for, awesome, virtually real for how we live. Drink up please, it's time. I love the look on my own children's faces, matching want against my bank account. There is no greater joy.
I still remember Mustafa, who taught me to interpret earnest Brits who mixed their beers. Who expected a precision to the pour such that we needed pneumatic calibrators to draw it from our dungeon. Where we were granted fish head lunch and dinner, marginal improvement, actually, above the fare on offer for the paying clientèle.
Who, after modest called out hours, morphed into beltwad spending gangland drinkers, open jacketed to the bar. Grinding pistols on display, pretty pool playing boss who rotated me from bar to bar because I would keep them clean.
I watched my niece learn to shoot pool at her grandparents' Republican retirement commune, where each night bon-vivant victors in the game of life can rehearse the way they were in college, or across the years at cocktail hour, calibrating dress for normalcy, and whose own children are that grateful to be relieved of the need to walk cadavers back and forth to dinner, excited for the new electric wheelchair set to arrive now any day. Jingle bells, jingle bells.
I think there is no contradiction that we should train the class of fandom with the same stentorian manner used at West Point, perpetuating cycles of abuse fully justified now by salary measures for the sporty, and the IQ scores of alphas relieved of duty. Pygmalion remains obedient in class.
And why did Obama, please, surround himself only with the Ivy mafia, the American Ruling Class which believes itself that far removed from the shouting classes; by irony removed to situations all reminiscent of real mahogany and leather. Hinted at theatrically or is it funereality, for those retired now everywhere. Drink up please, it's time.
My purpose then must become the evening of all scores. The leveling of all playing fields, the bringing back down to earth all hubristic towers, but with love and not with wanton mischief.
Mustafa was knifed to within an inch of life, doing what he'd taught me, leaping over the polished mahogany to intervene between bartop shattered jug and neck. Smiling Yank accomplishes what massive angry Tunisian never could.
I still stow Santa Suit in closet, somehow held back when SCUBA diving wetsuit was laid to rest in dumpster. My eyebrows pump on automatic. The children all beyond that age when Santa could accomplish the unlikely.
There is still time left to buy and wrap those presents. There is still a little time.
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