I've been having these dreams lately. Freudian in nature, you might say. In and of itself, that's not such a big deal (you should see what I get into when I'm conscious), but every damn night for the last week I've woken up somewhere in Canada, suckling from a maple tree, covered in sap.
Science fact: Fruit is not native to the North Pole, at least not for another thirty years (can I get a shout-out to global warming?). You wouldn't know it though, given the prodigious rate and cost at which Mrs. Claus imports that sweet sweet fructose. The big man could stand to lose his spare truck tire, sure, but oranges cost an arm and a leg up here. Maybe literally. I wouldn't put it past her to sell elf limbs. Certainly would explain the disappearances, though that could just as easily be... the other thing. We did have to put Shenzhen-style suicide nets on the elf barracks.
If you're never seen District 9, I'd encourage you to take care of that right quick. It'll really help you understand the elves, on both the biological and sociological levels.
About three months out from what I like to affectionately refer to as Hell Night, Santa makes a point of encouraging us polar reindeer to get in shape. Something about "not dropping dead of a heart attack before we hit the 70th parallel." Whatever, I'm in great shape. I went up a whole flight of stairs the other day. Half-flight. Curb. Driveway. Shut up.
I invested in a subcutaneous GPS this year, having finally wearied of the whinging over the occasional small navigational cul de sac. I think we're somewhere over Belarus. For some reason this thing only speaks in a near-incomprehensible Glasgow accent. Time to start nipping into Uncle Rudolph's Special Sauce to allay the misery of this yearly haul.
I feel compelled at this time to make a public service announcement. Like Shaggy said, it wasn't me. I appreciate body-shaping undergarments as much as the next middle-aged C-lister, but I've got a supplier of my own. I'm reasonably sure mine aren't stolen.
Now, for this week's drink. It's a mean one, if you're allergic to watermelon. When you're feeling fruity, or when you're feeling the humbug (as I often do) this one's for you, you illiterate knuckle-dragger you.
HANG ON HANG ON. Thissislike a rap batle right. whoa too drnk to type with hoofs. Sec. This mah mad vers skills.s. Frickin' Prancer thinks he can taek me. I'll show 'im. One of him.
Bumble, that magnificent hirsute bastard, had me thinking that was exclusively a stripper name from the time I was 8. Little did I know it was also a delicious cocktail. I found out the real story by accident when I was celebrating my 27th, getting hammered by myself over at The Naughty List. Like ya do. Always take care of your bartender kids, by any means necessary.
I have what you might call a turbulent relationship with tequila. Lately. The Channu-rita. Man. I got problems, and they're blue murder.
I'm feeling something a little more un-challenging this week. This one's simple like Vixen, but not half as hot... I mean you serve it chi... ok, what? I'm four shots deep, and sometimes I just need to snuggle something that ain't too discriminating. I can't have layers?
Ingredients:
I am a firm believer in celebrating the holidays of all faiths, because why would I not extend my annual December Bender for a few weeks? Channukah is a fine damn holiday. It's about important... uh... spiritual... things. That I can't remember right now.
Ok, so Manischewitz may taste like Dimetapp and rat poison, right, but it's cheap as hell.
As everyone knows, you can't have a proper party without a cake. Not counting the kind of party that just needs a two-by-four, some rubber gloves, and a jar of vaseline, but it's been ages since... uh... yeah.