SANTA AIN'T SATAN (CHRISTMAS CLASSICS)

 SANTA

AIN'T 

SATAN

(Christmas Classics) 

JESUS GREW UP TO BE A HORNY BASTARD

Jesus texts Mary Magdalene: 

You thought you were going

to be an untouched virgin

until I discovered your oasis

between Jerusalem and Nazareth

brimming with vaginal waters.

I gave birth to your wild side,

which isn't much more than yielding

to the ecstatic thrill of sex.

Even before I fondle you,

your innards drip with anticipation.

It excites me when you lose your mind,

inebriated by a concatenation of sensations.

Entering your viscous vulva

with my hard twitching appendage

never gets old.

Feeling it plunging deeper and deeper

into your dark depths gives me a boner.

more accurate than a diving rod.

I'm a snake slithering

into your damp hole.

And then there's that explosion of sperm

that floods your cavernous cavity.

Afterwards, I eat your pulsating pudenda

and then we share a sperm-filled kiss

with your tongue hissing inside my mouth.

You filthy, fabulous nympho.

I thank God he brought you into my life.

IT'S THE CHRISTMAS SEASON

In my contract with life, whether single or in a relationship, there is in microscopic letters a passage that is entitled the spontaneity clause.

There is also a warning against abusing it which I do my best to respect since the consequences are significant, but I have permission, granted by some anonymous power, that if I want to go for it even if it's cocaine, marijuana, cigarettes, beer and wine until the sun rises, it is within my right to exercise this freedom.

It's the Christmas season.

I did and today I am so discombobulated that I feel like I'm sitting in a jail cell awaiting my execution. So much for freedom. Please lock me up before I do something stupid again. That coke could have easily been laced with fentanyl and I could be dead.

Is it only a matter of time before a Herald headline reads: NOTED WRITER AND PUNDIT DEAD AT 73 FROM OVERDOSE. Like Santa quietly exiting a home after he has left the gifts, I'm hoping for a more mundane exit.

WHEN TRUMP & COVID RUINED CHRISTMAS

Didn't we celebrate Christmas eleven months ago? Didn't I just take the lights down from the front of the house in June and now I have to put them up again. I'm not climbing any ladder. You read every week about somebody who has fallen from a ladder, hit his head and died a few days later after complaining about terrible headaches. Why don't more women climb ladders?

Too much has changed from the time I was a child and when I had my own children. How does remembering happiness compensate for all the sadness that surrounds us? We have crossed the 270,000 death mark as the Coronavirus pandemic sweeps across the country unabatedly. And there ain't no Saint Nick occupying our highest office who gives rather than takes. He's big on numbers.

These are not good times. With all the uncertainty, paranoia rules our every move. I don't fear fear. I fear reality. From Washington D.C. to Brownsville and Austin in between we have no leadership. We have all these rabid Republicans whose religious fervor in their adulation of their cult hero has turned them into fanatics.

We keep hearing about the Far-Left, but I don't have one acquaintance who would identify himself as Far-Left, but the Far-Right are more prevalent than cockroaches. In fact, I've never known so many Mexican-Americans in one place who are proud to call themselves cucarachas.

Since adulthood I have endured many Christmases alone as I have gone from marriage to marriage. I will probably spend this Christmas alone. There are no children in my life with imaginations that know nothing but wonder who would give me that opportunity to revel in their innocence.

I'll buy a few gift cards to meet my responsibilities, but it will be another day for me as most my days are as I live the Golden Years with little gold in my bank account and mounting medical bills as an old, used car requires constant repairs.

I'm not complaining. I'm not asking for pity. For the most part, I am indifferent. It's like sex as you age: You're just not in the mood; the excitement is gone. What's a boner? What's a wet cunt? I'd rather listen to Jobim and sip on wine. I want the memories to go away. I don't want to dwell on the dead. I am the product of a perfect past. Even the bad times only made the good times better in those halcyon times.

The imperfect present has ruled my life for many years now. There is a burdensome dread that weighs heavy on me. I've grown disgusted with the imperfect me, but born reckless and restless, I can't escape who I am even though on the exterior I give the impression of a placid existence.

But I do have one Christmas wish: Get that fucking madman Trump out of The White House! And rather than filling his stocking with coal, bury the cocksucker in coal. Santa Claus should have never rewarded this naughty boy who grew into an even naughtier man.

He became so arrogant that he could kill a person on Madison Avenue in broad daylight and grab women by the pussies if the urge stirred him and brag that nobody would dare arrest or prosecute him.

And Christians would trust their daughters with this accused rapist??? I so sick of hypocritical Christians who would flock to the polls in support of Lucifer if he promised to outlaw abortion. Jesus would be the first to proclaim that these lemmings couldn't possibly be his followers if they were pledging their allegiance to the debauched Trump.

And while people by the hundreds if not thousands every week are dying, he continues with his god-awful lying. More than 80 million of our fellow citizens voted against this disgraceful excuse of a human being for president because The White House deserves a more honorable resident.

ANOTHER CHRISTMAS MEMORY

I call myself a writer and I have nothing to say on Christmas Eve. Maybe there are too many memories that create nothing but chaos inside my cranium. We were a happy family when I was a child and my parents, in spite of the overwhelming economic challenges and eight children, did everything within their powers to create the perfect family.

Our Catholic faith dictated our lives. Both my parents worked the Friday night bingos to pay for our parochial school tuitions. My dad often reminded us that he spent two years in the seminary after WWII and my mother never forgot to inform us that she was named after Therese the Little Flower. And they both emphasized that being of Irish heritage was synonymous with being Catholic.

During the holiday season we heard nothing but Christmas music and my mother would rent a television for the month of December because she loved the Christmas shows, but the other eleven months were dedicated to reading.

Dickens' Christmas Carol captured the excitement that enveloped both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for us. We never opened gifts until Christmas Day, but I was usually the one who shouted in the wee hours of the morning that Santa Claus had arrived and my siblings would pour out of their rooms. My parents would follow yawning since they had only been in bed for a few hours after assisting Santa with his work.

Though clothes were the least appreciated gifts, they were the attire that we would wear to Christmas mass as my mother would never support anything but an immaculate appearance at church. We could hardly aspire to being the perfect family if we weren't dressed for the role.

Since we had had turkey for Thanksgiving, turkey wasn't quite as exciting as it had been the previous month, but those were the only two days we feasted on the stuffed bird and there were no complaints since we weren't unfamiliar with empty stomachs when times were occasionally tough. We often asked for seconds, but the refrigerator and cupboards were bare.

"Eat everything on your plates," my mom and dad must have repeated a hundred times at dinner since there would be no more food until breakfast the following morning. "There are millions of children dying of hunger in China."

We were a struggling working class family slowly moving up the economic ladder, but despite our financial woes, my parents managed to place dozens of presents beneath the Christmas tree. They provided us with enough toys for us to forgive them for the clothes that we would wear until summer vacation when the bite of scissors would reduce our jeans to shorts.

December is a dreary month in Sacramento. The fog will hang over the Central Valley for weeks. The sky is gray, a mist falls and the temperature hovers in the mid-fifties. The elements never stopped us from congregating at the school yard to play football or basketball, but Christmas Day was strictly a family day and we never left the house.

With dinner at three and new toys to entertain us, we were content to remain as one. And my father, who never complained about the incalculable sacrifices he made for his wife and children, would convince my mom to relinquish the television for a few hours so he could watch a NFL game.

I take a deep sigh. Our lives are a flash punctuated by instances. It is beyond our comprehension that the moment we're living that we'll be reflecting on its more than a half-century later. And many of those on whom our memories rest are resting in peace. Since I was blessed, Christmas symbolizes for me goodness and innocence.

And, of course, there were the many Christmases that I celebrated as a husband and a father. With my parents as role models, the sacredness of the day seared into my consciousness and economically comfortable, I did my best to do my parents right by maintaining the tradition they had so lovingly instilled in their children.

During my adult life I have spent a solitary Christmas or two because I was no match for my parents 63 years of matrimony and on those lonely nights I have gone to bed early comforted by the past. Life ain't never a straight line.

Tonight will be a quiet family night with the mother-in-law's tamales the main dish. A few of the kids will return home and there will be an aunt or an uncle in attendance. Presents will be exchanged and good cheer will reign, but there will be an essential presence missing. What is Christmas without a child anxiously awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus?

And Christmas tomorrow? Sadly, it won't be much more than another day.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE CHILDREN GONE?

I've become a Scrooge 
in my old age. 
With no young children 
of my own to fill 
with the wonderment 
and enchantment 
of Christmas, 
I find little joy 
in the holiday. 
In fact, 
I'm one of those 
who suffers 
a passing depression
remembering 
my felicitous childhood 
as well as 
the excitement 
of my children 
opening their gifts.
Es triste.

THE BIG LIE

The earth has no soul. 
The earth has no spirit. 
The earth doesn't believe in an after-life. 
The earth doesn't believe in eternity. 
The earth doesn't believe in God. 
The earth has no brain. 
It reacts to its body and nothing else. 
Like most humans, 
it goes around and around chasing its tail.
We are children of the earth. 
Why should we be any different than our mother? 
We have no soul. 
We have no spirit. 
Why should we believe in an after-life? 
Why should we believe in eternity? 
Why should we believe in God?
Brainless, we listen to our body and nothing else. 
And we spend our time chasing our tails.
The scientists predict that one day 
the earth will disappear from the universe. 
No tears will be shed. 
We know that one day 
we will disappear from the universe. 
A few tears will be shed 
by those who will soon disappear from the universe.
The earth is a fragile place that we are slowly destroying. 
We are fragile creatures bent on self-destruction. 
While climate change inflicts permanent damage on earth, 
we turn to drugs, drink and dames 
to inflict permanent damage on ourselves.
As we celebrate Christmas, 
we should never forget that Santa Claus was a big lie. 
Unlike the earth, 
we fool ourselves into thinking that there is hope. 
Long before Trump, there was the Big Lie.

THE DAY CHRISTMAS DIED

"dedicated to john lennon"

I'm waitin' for Santa

and it ain't gonna be a pretty sight.

I'm waitin' for Santa

and it ain't gonna be a pretty sight.

I've got my shotgun loaded

and he won't be seein' the morning light.

Somebody gots to pay the price

for messin' 'round with my wife.

Somebody gots to pay the price

for messin' round with my wife.

And Satan's gonna pay,

he's gonna pay with his life.

The youngins gots a better plan

hidden in a batch of goodies.

The youngins gots a better plan

hidden in a batch of goodies--

a tall, cold glass of milk

and a dozen poisoned cookies.

Adiós you fat fuck Santa,

I hope you enjoy your last ride.

Adiós you fat fuck Santa,

I hope you enjoy your last ride.

You can run across the sky,

but a full moon won't let you hide.

The lyin' Christians are cryin':

"Christmas just won't be the same!"

The lyin' Christians are cryin':

"Christmas just won't be the same!"

But don't point your fingers at me

cause St. Dick is the only one to blame.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE HAS NO LIGHTS

Merry Christmas. If that's possible. 

I know the kids had some wonderful visits from Santa when we were together. And there was that snowy night when Joseph was three months old. And your parents--may they rest in peace--would join us to sup on my tasty hams. 

I remember when I gave you a cheap watch for Christmas and you handed it back to me in disgust. I took it angrily from your hand and threw it against the wall where it shattered like Humpty Dumpty. 

There was no way the pieces could have been put back together again. 

I guess this anecdote captures much of our marriage. It could have been special, but we were ambushed on our way to market.

SANTA WORKS IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS

The two bums were huddled next to each other against a building that offered protection from a howling wind but not a piercing cold. As they embraced each other for body warmth, one slipped a hand into the other's pants and started playing with his penis.

"I appreciate the gesture, but there's no fire left in that appendage."

Feeling he should return the gesture as part of a desperate response to the elements, he slipped his hand into his companion's pants only to discover a pussy.

He fondled the hairy thing and a tingling sensation enveloped his body. He no longer felt cold. In fact, for the first time in ages he felt horny. On this night of miracles his cock pulsated with a lost youth.

He stripped the woman from the waist down and straddled her. As his cock slipped into her cunt he felt like he was plunging into a steaming bath.

He remembered his parents, his children and his ex-wife as well as the many holiday nights spent with them next to a fireplace. The memories burned within him. Sweat poured from his body. As he shot his wad he felt like Santa Claus coming down the chimney.

He rolled off her and fell against the hard pavement. He hadn't breathed this deeply in years. Panting and pulling up his pants, he opened his eyes and saw the woman disappearing into the night.

"Where are you going?"

"I have many more visits to make and many more presents to deliver," she answered as her voice grew faint in the freezing mist.

FOR CHRISTMAS I WANT MY BABY BOY BACK

"Why don't you kiss me anymore, son?" asked my father with a resigned sadness in his face.

"Dad!" I stammered. "Dad!"

Didn't he understand? I was 15. I was too old to be kissing my father. He looked at me with his sympathetic demeanor. I didn't have to explain. He understood. He always understood. He was a man of great patience and discipline.

As I passed through adolescence into adulthood, I never forgot to kiss him on the cheek and hug him if we had been separated for any period of time. I felt more like an Italian in my expression of love than I did an Irishman. What I would give to kiss and hug him now, but he has departed for parts.

I have three sons. I coached for many years and I know something about boys. A Jewish friend of mine with all the knowledge of the patriarchs has four sons.

"They are beautiful when they are children, but then they grow up," he told me with a wistfulness in his voice.

My youngest is 20. He, like my other sons, has been affectionate with me. Since he is my baby, he occupies a special place in my heart.

For the record, all my sons occupy a special place in my heart. My mother had eight children, but she had the gift of making each feel like an only child. I inherited that talent from her.

"Donde esta mi hijo bonito?" I would call when I went to collect him at the daycare. He would come bounding to me as children do when they see the parents they love.

Rather than hooking up with the buddies--who chided me for being too old to be raising a child--for countless Happy Hours, I would spend my afternoons teaching him everything from catching a football to riding a bike. It was pure joy.

I have never been able to satisfy my desire for him because from the knowledge gained experiencing the passing of time via my older sons, I literally visualize the sand pouring like Niagara Falls through an hour glass. In three days I will be 74. Soon I will be dead. Time is an incomprehensible phenomenon for me.

Meanwhile, he is studying at Texas State as well as working at two bars in Austin. He is making his way and I'm proud of him, but he is also a young buck and likes to howl at the moon until the sun replaces it the next day in the sky.

There are photos of him throughout the house that capture the innocence I worshipped. Regrettably, that little boy is gone, gone forever.

We have moments at a restaurant eating wings and watching a game when he will return to his former self and sling his arm around my shoulder, but those intimate exchanges are few and far between.

This Christmas I will have all three boys. There will be one day that we will spend together at a favorite establishment. We will eat well and drink well and our spirits will be high.

They appreciate their old man. For all the bad that I have done in my life--not enough to spend eternity in hell, I hope--I will go to my grave with the satisfaction that I have been a good father.

But I can't escape my melancholic nostalgia. Since I don't believe in Santa Claus anymore, I can't count on ol' St. Nick bringing back my baby. When you live a long life, you die a slow death.

SANTA BIDS ADIEU

This is the thirteenth time I have visited your home, Carlos. I remember the first time I saw you. You and your parents were living in the apartments by the mall and I couldn't open the sliding door because your father had locked it. Fortunately, I have my ways and I was able to enter.

The first time I saw you, Joaquin, your family had moved to a house near downtown. Your father was kind enough to leave the front door open and I didn't have any problems leaving presents for you and your brother.

The last several years you have been living in the country. I like visiting your home. You don't have any barking or biting dogs. And the two of you have always left me tasty cookies and cold milk. It's a long night traveling around the world and taking care of earth's children. You didn't forget my snacks tonight, either. Thank-you very much.

You are good boys. You must continue to read books and play sports. You must be careful. There are many bad influences in this world. Never do anything that would make your parents sad, particularly your mother. They love you very much. I visit children who don't have mommies and daddies. You have both. Love them as much as they love you.

I have sad news for you. I won't be visiting you again until you have sons and daughters. You are no longer little boys. Carlos, you are a teenager and I'm sure you don't think about me as much as you did when you were younger.

Joaquin, you have been one of my favorites. You have waited for me with such excitement, but you are going into junior high and Santa won't be as important to you as football and friends.

I hope you aren't disappointed that I won't be stopping again until you are fathers. I wish you could stay little boys your entire lives with your mother and father at your sides, but we grow up and must provide for those who follow in our paths. Santa will miss you. God bless you.

CHRISTMAS COMBINES HAPPINESS & SADNESS

As the oldest of eight, I celebrated Christmas with the youthful exuberance of any child. My father was a white-collar salesman who brought home blue-collar wages. My mother had her hands full with a growing brood.

We passed through periods of poverty. We had so few family possessions that at one point there was a picnic table in the front room and mattresses in the bedrooms.

Our situation was so dire that on one occasion all we had was a frozen package of pees in the freezer as we waited anxiously for my father to come home with food.

He finally arrived near midnight with two bags full of groceries and fixed us hamburgers. We ate voraciously, both my parents making sure we went to be with full tummies.

Despite our many challenges that we overcame through the years as we progressed economically, there was never a dearth of presents at Christmas and our stockings were will filled to capacity, apples and oranges the biggest items, but there would be a tiny toy or two.

I once called my mother to the front window and we spotted the outline of Santa Claus and his reindeer etched against the moon.

I don't have any idea the sacrifices my parents made to assure the holidays were a special time for us, but they never failed. And the turkey dinner, my father's specialty, was second to one.

When people find themselves depressed at Christmas, these memories are a double-edged sword that leave wounds that still bleed in one's heart.

I wish I had been more like my father as I think of my failed marriages and the suffering my children and step-children endured as a result of my penchant for selfishness.

I try to overcome my pessimism by remembering the profound love my mom and dad experienced together as there was no tawdry temptation or cheap thrill that would have ever threatened the beauty and sacredness of the family.

SANTA VISITS PUERTA VALLARTA

Santa was tired. Christmas had been lousy with the wife sick and the elves and reindeer drinking excessively. Mrs. Claus had undergone a hysterectomy in early December and the doctors feared that she might have other female problems.

The alcoholism among the elves and the reindeer had exceeded all bounds, particularly Rudolph whose red nose Santa suspected resulted from too many debauched evenings with the elves.

The trip around the world had been a dismal affair. Santa's itinerary had become a hodgepodge of stops. He didn't consider himself a racist, but he didn't care for Arabs. He secretly hoped Islam would become more widespread so he could limit future excursions to Western Europe and the Americas.

Santa needed a vacation. During his trip he found a brochure on a coffee table, next to the milk and cookies, which had fascinated him. It was entitled "Puerto Vallarta--And Sometimes You Even Sleep." It read:

"You awake under a clear, blue sky and breakfast at the sun-splashed doors of a cafe. After a walk along the shore you return for a light lunch of shrimp and beer before enjoying a siesta in a hammock. In the afternoon you promenade along the shaded, cobblestone streets.

"After a shower and a change of clothes it's time for a dinner of delicious fish and a bottle of wine. From a breeze-swept balcony you contemplate the ocean, a perfect ending to an untroubled and tranquil day.

"But suddenly everything changes. The night is born, exciting, sensual, loco. It's as if you've been transported astrally (Santa could relate) to Rio in the middle of carnival.

Bars swarm with exotic people. Beautiful bodies search for delight. Discos fill with revelers disguised as angels and devils and Egyptian queens, dressed, half-dressed, nude, fun, frenzy...and besides...and also...

"You awake at noon to another day of fun. But those sandals at your bedside, whose are they?"

The promotion sold Santa and soon after the New Year he embarked on a two-week vacation. Traveling under his baptismal name, Nicolaus Claus, he booked a direct flight to Puerto Vallarta. He turned heads at immigration.

His long beard and flowing white hair raised the suspicions of custom officers who viewed him as an aging hippie.

Santa was flattered when he arrived at the resort and a tourist, mistaking him for Walt Whitman, asked for his autograph.

After settling into one of the city's finest hotels, Santa--attired in a bikini bathing suit and a pair of huaraches--waddled to the beach. His eyes twinkled when he saw the parachute skis.

The owner of the boat tried to dissuade Santa from the ride, but his son, who had convinced the gringo to pay twice the regular price, convinced his father to the contrary.

Santa slipped into the skis and fastened the life preserver. The son started the engine and the boat moaned and groaned under its titanic load. Then disaster struck. Just as Santa was gaining altitude the line snapped. Santa plunged into the ocean headfirst and gulped gallons of salt water before the preserver brought him to the surface.

The father steered his craft next to the human buoy. After 15 minutes of straining and cursing, the father and son managed to pull Santa into the boat. They returned him to the beach and deposited Santa on the shore. Santa staggered a few steps and collapsed.

He had passed out from exhaustion. Indians selling blankets, opals and other trinkets gathered around Santa and talked excitedly. For once a story of their village priest had come true: The ocean had coughed up "Jonah the Whale."

Santa lay without stirring. The only sound which some passerby mistook for German was a raucous snoring. Santa's plunge into the ocean had continued straight into hell.

The sun's pitchfork melted his snow-white skin leaving a burn brighter than his Christmas suit. He struggled to his feet and ploughed through the sand. He felt like a meteor moving slowly through the sky with a flame in his wake.

When he reached his room, he crashed on his bed. The box springs slammed to the floor. He didn't move for a week. The maid took pity on him and rubbed his back with cream. The pain forced him to rest on his belly as day after day he sipped soft drinks out of cups. Santa refused to drink the water under any circumstances.

At the end of the first week Santa was back on his feet. The Hawaiian shirts and white slacks he had purchased for the trip hung loosely on him. Santa was of a generation that believed a man's girth reflected his prosperity. He feasted on tacos, enchiladas and chile rellenos and these he washed down with buckets of Tecate.

Santa became enamoured with the Mexican beer and thought of ordering cases for the return trip, but he didn't want to exacerbate the alcohol problems among his helpers.

Again disaster struck: Moctezuma's Revenge. Avoiding the water and restricting his meals to the hotel hadn't been enough. For three days he suffered from vomiting and diarrhea. The maid, a woman named Magdalena whom Santa insisted on calling Maria, nursed him.

Santa regained his health, but his spirits had sunk to a new low. He couldn't remember when he had felt so desperate except the night he went against his better judgement and allowed an inebriated Rudolph to guide his team through the fog.

The memory evoked home. He pictured Mrs. Claus sewing near the fireplace. Their marriage had not been exciting. It had been one of convenience.

Mrs. Claus, whose maiden name was Weitz, was Jewish. Her father, a toy manufacturer, had been willing to go to any extreme to unload his daughter and had essentially set Santa up in business.

Against his wife Santa harbored much animosity. Besides lacking the Christmas spirit, she was prudish and had never given him any children. Before he returned to the cold forge of the North Pole, Santa knew one thing: He needed the hot blood of a Latin woman.

He had never cheated on his wife. He had kissed mothers on Christmas Eve, but that was the most he could accomplish on his short schedule. But where could he find a woman now? There was a knock at the door. It was Magdalena.

She was a stout woman in her fifties who had worked all her life and raised many children. Santa saw a doe-eyed fawn.

"Como esta, Ud.?" asked Magdalena.

"Muy mal, Maria. Muy mal."

He rolled over on his stomach and using his hand convinced Magdalena to peel the skin off his back. She peeled and Santa shivered. His body shook like an earthquake. When she reached over his shoulder to tear off another swathe, he grabbed her hand and blubbered, "Maria! Maria! I love you! Je t'aime."

Magdalena pulled back and looked at him. His mass covered the bed like jelly dripping off the sides of bread. She had been in this predicament on previous occasions, often chased around rooms and pinched on the ass. She had surrendered but for the right price.

"One hundred dollars," she mustered in her best English.

For the next two days Santa was in the earthly paradise he had recalled in the brochure. It wasn't until he had been home a week that he discovered his newest ailment: He had gonorrhea.

GOD RAPES OUR MIND!!! SANTA SAVES OUR SANITY!!!

After I sat down with my sons

and described for them the salacious relationship

between the birds and the bees,

they questioned me about God and Santa Claus.

I told them that God was another myth

to combat man's fear of death.

I said that if God were a teacher,

he would have been fired

for having sex with a minor.

I explained to them that I found Jesus

a laudable figure since he had overcome

a bastard's complex in order

to achieve a modicum of success.

I quipped that the Holy Ghost

was the black sheep of the family.

His predilection for ecstasy

would have made him popular in Austin

where mind-altering drugs never lose their appeal.

Santa Claus, on the other hand, was as real

as the earth itself. He represented man

at his very best, always giving, never expecting

anything in return. I assured my boys

that the superintendent had been correct

in removing the nativity scene,

but I promised to have a talk

with those teachers

who were telling their students

that there was no Santa Claus.

SCROOGE RELIVES CHRISTMAS PAST

Since I stayed up until the early morning hours Christmas Eve and abused myself in the spirit of the holiday season, I don't crawl off the floor until the early afternoon. I'm sleeping on a thick mat with my laptop at my side playing classical music. 

I'm not too hungover since I didn't plunge myself into the abyss last night. There were several young people at the gathering and it was pleasant to listen to their perspective on life. While the old folks busied themselves with family rumors and remembrances of past loved ones, the youth wanted to inebriate themselves, smoke cigarettes and speak of ideals.

To be honest, I don't know their major themes except Trump is trash. While I grow less and less sure about myself as I age, they are firm in their beliefs. If it has to climb over their dead bodies, change will come. Like their adult counterparts, some things never change. They want to drink themselves into a stupor.

As benefits a Christmas morning, Santa has left a freezing wake on his journey to the south. Mexico City is cold, rainy and gloomy. Thunder and lightning provide the frozen fireworks. There is an excellent restaurant less than a half block from my house. I don't think it is open and I don't want to venture into the inclement weather even though a hot of coffee seems worth the risk as well as a late breakfast.

I have no plans for today. I suppose as evening approaches, I'll drink a bottle of wine and eat a well-catered meal. I reflect on Brownsville and on all the chaos that exists for me there. My personal life has turned into a catastrophe as it seems to succumb to less and less meaning. 

Franko Harris, the great Steeler running back infamous for the immaculate reception, suddenly dropped dead at 72. My old pugilistic buddy Joe Barguiarena suffered a permanent knockout last week. Whether they're national heroes or personal friends, they are dropping like flies. I'll be 72 in four days although I don't feel like I'm in danger of dying within the next few months although all these wide-spread viruses seem to be taking a toll on the best of all.

I fear that the state of our health is taking such a woeful term on humanity that I wouldn't be surprised if someone didn't inform me that Santa Claus was dead.

GRANNY MAKES HER WISH

I want a big dick for Christmas.
I want Santa Claus to come
down my chimney.
I want him to cum in my cunt.
I haven't been fucked in fifteen years.
I'm 75 years old.
Nobody wanted me when I was 60.
It's more hopeless a decade later.
God visited the Virgin Mother.
Was she 15 years old?
Why won't the old lecher
visit my bed one night
and fuck the shit out of me?
My pussy still purrs;
my pussy still grinds.
Maybe I've lost my teeth,
but can you imagine the blow jobs?
Maybe my breasts hang to my waist,
but have you ever eaten pussy
and sucked on a tit at the same time?
I want a hard dick inside of me, goddammit!
Bring me a cadaver
and I'll wait until rigor mortis
straightens his penis.
Isn't there a young guy
crazy to screw his grandmother?
Get drunk,
close your eyes,
turn off the lights
and set your imagination free.
Boys, men, dogs, horses!
I won't disappoint you.
I have my moneymaker,
but nobody is making a deposit.
Take it from granny, girls:
Fuck, fuck, fuck before age rapes you.