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.
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.
“We should revive and develop the ancient spirit of righteous indignation,” the speaker argues. “The citizen who through indifference or cowardice is as reprehensible as the wrongdoer.”
How do you put something back together? How do you keep it from falling apart? How do you stand up out of bed if your bed is the wall and you’re already standing? These are some of the questions Grain of Sand Theatre is asking in rehearsals for its latest production, Tell-Tale, which will be playing this July as part of the 2013 Capital Fringe Festival.
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.