Oh, ’tis the season to be jolly, or so they say. But let’s lay it out straight—here’s what I’m dreaming of this Christmas, and trust me, Santa, it’s not your usual sugar-coated shit.
First off, how about a week when my brain decides to take a fuckin’ break? No panic attacks or depression, just me and my sanity enjoying a nice cup of hot cocoa. Or an Irish beer and whiskey. Is that too much to ask?
Next up, these goddamn tremors. Seriously, body, can you fucking chill for a week? I’m not auditioning for a shaky Maraca solo here. And while we’re at it, Santa, how about hooking me up with a job where I can earn a paycheck from home without turning my bedroom into a scene from The Devil in Miss Jones? <— that’s a porn reference, just in case you didn’t get it.
And speaking of disappearing acts, Santa brother, can you please arrange for Donald Trump to fucking vanish into thin air? Poof! Gone. Maybe he can take up a hobby like extreme knitting from the top of Mount Everest with no coat until he knits one, or you can just staple his mouth shut. Anything to keep him far, far away from the headlines and away from our country.
While you’re at it, take that zombie Biden with him. In fact, take most of those idiots in the House and Senate and send them to North Korea and let them fuck that country up even more than it is. Give us some better choices for 2024, please?
Carrie’s hip, oh my dear Carrie’s hip. Can we fix that without going under the knife? Surgery is so last season, and I don’t want her to start setting off metal detectors at the airport.
Steelers, you giant pile of underachieving dookie, how ’bout you clean house? We’re all tired of mediocrity. But since I’m really wishing big, go ahead and win the Super Bowl first. It’s not like I’ve invested years of emotional energy into your games or anything. Same with the Penguins and their maddening inconsistency.
Lottery, oh sweet lottery, let this be the year my ship comes in. Santa, I’ll even share the winnings with you. Just make it rain, buddy.
Now, onto almost everyone’s eternal struggle—eating whatever the hell I want without gaining weight. Can we make calories a thing of the past, or is that too much to ask? I want to devour a mountain of Pop-Tarts without looking like the Michelin Man.
And the Beatles, my beloved Beatles, can you guys stop releasing shit songs that make me question my undying love for you? I want the magic of the past preserved, not to hear some boring, bland, non-experimental track that sounds like Jeff Lynne recorded some mediocre local cover band.
Lastly, peace on earth (like that wasn’t going to be on the list?!?!?). I mean, come on, Santa, you’re magic, right? Snap your fingers, wave your candy cane, whatever the fuck you do and let’s have just a little less chaos in the world. I’m not asking for complete world peace; just peace beyond my living room would be a good start.
So, Santa, my old fat friend, if you’re listening, let’s make this Christmas the one where wishes come true—minus the sugar-coating. Cheers to a holiday season filled with laughter, sarcasm, and just a dash of that Christmas magic.
*This post was written while listening to “Fairytale of New York” by The Pogues (RIP Shane MacGowen)*