Writing my own bastardized versions of popular Christmas songs is usually something of an annual tradition for me.
Key word: usually. Sadly, due to a sudden apparent complete lack of creativity on my part, it doesn’t look like that will be happening this year.
Or maybe 2016 was just so awful that even I’m having trouble making light of it.
Happily, though, the internet is a thing, so at the very least I’m still able to enjoy and share the irreverent holiday mockeries of others.
Like the Wookiee-tastic version of Silent Night that I stumbled upon last night.
Wow, the walking carpet can carry a tune! Who knew?
But I’ve always been more of a Trekkie myself; specifically, a Next Generation Trekkie. And although being serenaded by Chewie definitely tickles my funny bone, I find this classic holiday offering featuring Captain Jean-Luc Picard & Co. far more…engage-ing.
What’s your favorite carol crime? Pour yourself a glass of spiked eggnog (unless eggnog’s not your thing, in which case MORE FOR ME, SUCKER) and post your most gigglesome holiday twisted tune selections in the comments so we can all have a much needed guffaw.
P.S. Pets in Santa hats also accepted.
P.P.S. Or GIFs of people slipping hilariously on ice.
P.P.P.S. Or whatever you want, really. I’m not picky, nor am I good at sticking to themes.
An alleged friend of Nutty Hubby’s and mine sent us a Christmas card that sheds micro glitter like a sparkly vampire with the world’s worst case of dandruff.
I don’t know what we did to her to deserve this kind of punishment or how we’ll be able to properly atone so it doesn’t happen again next holiday season, but what I do know is thanks to handling that most egregious travesty of holiday correspondence I will now be finding glitter on my desk and in my carpet and in my pores for approximately the next fifty years. Assuming I don’t die before then, in which case my cremation will make for one very festive urn of ashes indeed.
Last night, as I tried for the eleventh time to get a single stubborn fleck of the godforsaken stuff off the tip of my index finger (an emery board eventually did the trick) I found myself wondering who it was we had to
castigate thank for making the herpes of the craft world possible. So I typed my glittering way over to Wikipedia to find out.
“The first production of modern plastic glitter is credited to the American machinist Henry Ruschmann, who found a way to cut plastic or mylar sheets into glitter in 1934.” – Wikipedia1,2
You misspelled “masochist”.
Dear Henry Ruschmann,
1 “Glitter.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, 13 Dec. 2016. Web. 16 Dec. 2016.
2 Yes, I know people were using other shit as glitter long before my new nemesis Henry, but sometimes you just need to hate someone with a name.
Not long now.
It’s almost here.
Me? I’m armed and ready. Let’s fuckin’ do this.
Somebody tell me it’s not just Nutty Hubby and I that snicker like little children every time we see this Advent calendar at the drugstore.
I dare you to tell me Little Miss Jingle Bell Hat over there doesn’t look like she wants Little Mister Navel Tunic* to do things to her with his paintbrush that he’s only read about on 4chan.
Seriously, look at her. Girlfriend’s almost giving herself a case of the Exorcist neck cricks to shoot him those come-hither eyes. She’s bent over that dollhouse (or cabin or whatever the fuck it’s supposed to be) popping her booty with more enthusiasm than a Kardashian trying to break the internet. I swear she’s five seconds or less away from just breaking down and rearranging all the alphabet blocks in the workshop to read “JESUS CHRIST ARE YOU BLIND WOULD YOU PLEASE JUST FRIGGIN’ JUMP MY BONES ALREADY?”
That’s probably why the dollhouse/cabin monstrosity looks so sad and crappy. She’s spent all day fantasizing about Navel Boy in his little red tights instead of doing her stupid job.
So if you get a shitty gift this year, now you know who to blame.
Damn horny elves.
*I would really like to know why the artist felt it necessary to include that navel. It…haunts me.
They say Christmas is always in our hearts, but it turns out that Christmas is also always just a regular dumb old road in Coquitlam.
For the record, I took this picture with the sole intention of mocking Christmas Way on Instagram for being early with the holiday cheer, but apparently the mere act of crossing Christmas Way makes your grinchy heart grow three sizes, because by the end of the day I had inexplicably acquired six new Christmas ornaments, three spools of holiday ribbon, a festive candle, several branches of faux winter berries, and an eye-searingly red sweater that reads Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animal when all I had intended to do was replace my worn-out suede boots and update my wardrobe for the cooler weather, so I guess the joke was on me.
And I didn’t even get the damn boots.
Today is the summer solstice. The longest goddamn day of the year.
Maybe I’d be more inclined to enjoy that if I were lying in the sun on a pristine beach somewhere with a mai tai in one hand and a piña colada in the other – and two or three or ten more on the way, ideally served to me by Robert Downey Jr. – but I’m not. I’m stuck in a dreary grey office with dreary grey clouds outside the window and it’s Monday and therefore everything is terrible.
So fuck summer. Let’s have Christmas instead.
I experienced an extremely important revelation recently:
I should never be Santa.
I mean it. If by some terrible tragedy Santa falls off my roof and it turns out The Santa Clause is actually a thing and there’s a card in Old St. Nick’s pocket saying, “Yo dawg, put on my jacket!”, I am begging my friends, family and neighbors to keep me the hell away from that coat, because I guarantee that if I put it on and take over for the big guy, Christmas will be ruined forever. Continue reading
A friend of mine hosts the most hysterical white elephant parties every year after Christmas. The perfect combination of good friends, good food, and awful presents, they are hands down the highlight of everyone’s January.
Never been to a white elephant party? You’re missing out. Here are some of my winnings from past years (“winnings” might be too kind a term for some of them) which could have been yours:
The more I hear “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”, the more uncomfortable it makes me. Nothing says holiday classic like a date-rapey exchange by the fire, right?
Admittedly the first two verses aren’t so bad, but then she starts asking what’s in her drink (WTF?!) and he dodges the question and responds with manipulative flattery and guilt trips instead, and she’s like, dude you’re totally gonna ruin my reputation, and he’s like YOU WON’T HAVE A REPUTATION TO RUIN IF YOU CATCH PNEUMONIA AND DIE, BITCH and I’m like, HOLY MOTHER OF GOD this is why chaperones used to be a thing, people.
So I did a little editing. My version doesn’t quite have the same musicality of the original, but it helps me sleep better at night.
Also it’s shorter, and when it comes to Christmas music, shorter is usually good.
Baby, It’s Cold Outside But I Respect Your Boundaries
“I really can’t stay…”
“That’s cool. But baby, it’s cold outside…so take my scarf and some gloves. I don’t think we can get you a cab, but would you like me to walk you home?”