Shove Your Christmas Cheer Up Your Shit Ass Fuck
Yes, I do like the holidays. I don't like that to get out around the plant on account of I have a certain persona and attitude there -- and by that I mean I KICK NAMES AND TAKE ASSES if people are shits -- but it's true. Yes, you have to get a Christmas tree that probably has bugs in it that tear up your woodwork that you might not have worked on but somebody fucking did, but it's still probably the least annoying holiday there is, with the possible exception of Halloween because I'm FUCKING SCARED OF THOSE LITTLE SHITS AND THEIR COSTUMES THERE I SAID IT.
At least, that's what I once thought. But when this Christmas is over, here's what I'll probably think about the holiday SEA-FUCK: FUCKING SHIT.
You see, one of my little SEA URCHINS came up to me the other day to talk to me about Fuckmas, which was a coincidence because I was in the middle of working myself into a rage about the fact that the old PLANTY PLANT isn't giving old Pete a HUGE FUCKING CHRISTMAS BONUS, only a small one. SCROOGE IT UP, DUCKFACES.
"Daddy, you haven't asked for my Christmas list yet," said the shit.
"IS THERE A MOTHERFUCKING WHITE BEARD ON MY FACE?" I explained, grabbing my son's face and furiously rubbing it on my cheeks to illustrate my point. "AM I DRESSED IN A RED SHIT WITH A FUCKING CORNCOB PIPE AND A FART MADE OUT OF SNOW?"
"Well," the SEA DOLPHIN said, starting to blubber and cry MORE LIKE A SEA WHALE, "you do have your red sweatpants on."
"OH MY FUCKING JESUS," I stated, trying to keep in control on account of the holiday SPIRIT OF SHITTINGS PAST but actually being fucking ANGRY because of the blatant smartassery that old FLIPPER THE FRIENDLY GHOST just said. "You're really SMARTING IT UP, aren't you, SMARTY THE SHITTING GHOST? You're so FUCKING SMART THAT YOU DON'T NEED ANY CHRISTMAS PRESENTS, HOW ABOUT THAT?"
"Please," said SMARTY JONES, galloping around my brain like a FUCKING ASS. "Please, daddy."
"HO HO HO," I said, in the spirit of the holidays and all, and took a bite out of my workbench. "HO HO HO AND A BOTTLE OF BITCH."
Later, though, I began to have a change of the old heart. After all, when I was a little shit urchin dolphin myself, my own father never bought me the fucking shit that I wanted, and I remember constantly crying myself to sleep while he poked a broom handle through a special hole in my floor that he had drilled and threatened to smack me if I didn't stop being a FUCKING CRYING ASS. All of that was just good parenting, except for maybe the present part. Maybe my kids needed a present.
I quickly stamped my foot on the ground four times, which means that my wife should come to me immediately. When she did, I asked her what the PISSING DOLPHINS wanted for Crapmas, since now old Pete HAD TO BUY THEM SHIT, Jesus Mother And Shit, do they think that my MONEY JUST MATERIALIZES OUT OF THE FUCKING ASS?
"They've all been saying how they'd like one of those new Playstations," the PARTNER IN MATRIFUCKMONY told me, probably lying or some shit. "The ones that are slimmer."
"STOP SASSING," I said absentmindedly. I had just gotten an idea -- maybe my kids could use one of those new Shitstations. The slim ones. I dismissed my wife and punished her for not thinking of any good ideas by dumping the silverware drawer on the floor ("THERE'S AN IDEA FOR YOU," I said) and headed off to WalMart.
"THIS IS PETE DUNSON," I announced when I got into the store. "I AM HERE FOR A MOTHERFUCKING SHITSTATION."
"Uh...hello sir, and welcome to WalMart," said some SWEET OLD MAN, trying to walk up to me. "Can I help you?"
"Is that a motherfucking SHITBITCH STATION FOUR that you have?" I inquired. "It isn't? Well isn't that HILARIOUS, SWEETY PIE, BECAUSE AS IT HAPPENS THAT'S WHAT I FUCKING ASKED FOR!"
"Sir, please stop shouting," he said, TRYING TO KILL ME BY MAKING ME HAVE A HEART ATTACK. "I don't understand what you're asking for."
"YOU CAN'T KILL ME, I'LL COME BACK STRONGER THAN YOU CAN POSSIBLY FUCKING IMAGINE," I explained, and bit his cheek in the spirit of the holidays. "Don't tell me what my SMARTY HORSE DOLPHIN WHALES WANT."
"Jesus!" he said, dancing around like a merry elf. "Jesus, this guy bit me!"
You know, at that point, I had had enough of the holidays. I just wanted a BITCHSTATION ELEVEN, but people just couldn't mind their own shits. They had forgotten the importance of that magical night in Shitlehem when Jesus rose from his grave to cast electrical spells at anti-American shits. I decided it was time to take back Christmas for freedom and Jesus.
"SILENT SHIT," I sang, climbing on top of a display of a whole bunch of boxes of some toy that looked like a black box with a controller sticking out of it. "HOLY SHIT. FUCKING BITCH, SANTA COMES, MIND YOUR OWN SHITTING BUSINESS."
But as I reached the crescendo of my CHRISTMAS MERRYMENT, I slipped because that OLD BASTARD MADE ME and fell down the display. The next thing I knew, I was in the police station for LOVING CHRISTMAS and AMERICA too much. Well BLOW SOME PLAYSTATIONS IN MY ASS, WHO THE FUCK KNEW THAT WAS A CRIME?
Fuckstations. Old men. Whale kids. Christmas bugs in trees. These are the things that are ruining the holiday spirits. That's why I say, take your JESUSMAS cheer and KILL YOURSELF WITH IT, YOU FUCKING BITCH.