Thanks. Happy fucking festivus to you too.
That is the traditional way to celebrate the Festivus Season here on the Sunshine Coast.
I’ve got my pole, and there’s one other person here who actually knows what “Festivus” is—
“Where exactly on the Sunshine Coast?”
That—Festbok, as I call it—is merely a poor man’s Innis & Gunn. A little stronger, and a little nastier.
But it gets the job done.
What’s that you say? The holiday season has passed—I mean, what the fuck, it’s February already—and I’m a knob for continuing to celebrate some made-up bullshit holiday?
Meh. Perhaps. But Festivus ends when I say it ends. I celebrated all through December and January…
And it got me through.
Then reality set it.
Festbok must be managed properly, or it can be…fatal.
One per hour, and something to eat after three hours (like or not, stuff that crap down). Or else…
You don’t wanna know.
“Did you actually celebrate Christmas?”
Oh my god. Oh my fucking god.
Why would you even ask?
Of course not.
Whenever I scampered out of my box, I made like a rabbit—and the smiling people destined to say, “Merry Christmas” were the snarling wolves.
A few times I wasn’t far enough away…and I had to nod and…and…fucking smile.
It’s all okay now, though.
“So, how’s it going, Nord? Haven’t heard from you in a while?”
Oh, well…I should write a short story about that…
Called, All Manner of Douchebaggery.
But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. I mean, what else can a by-gone be except a bygone?
Huh? Yeah. I just blew your mind.
Naw, it’s been mostly wretched with brief periods of intermittent moments of brilliance brought on by drugs, drunkenness, or other tomfoolery und hoohah.
Yes. There has been horseplay, and merriment. Huzzah!
How have you been?
Yeah? Right on. Good on ya, mate.
Despite what you might think…I’m not really crazy. I am, as anyone can demonstrate, a madman. Absotively. Posilutely. But I’m not insane.
And anyone with the fortitude, and dedication—and diligence—can easily verify my sanity, using modern psychology and parapsychology and entomology.
Yeah, shit man. I passed all their tests.
Oh yeah. Go ask them.
Anyway, I’m gone in ten days. Into the wild blue yonder.
Back into the shit.
To a new spot. With a new face. A new identity. A new attitude. New glasses, shoes. New hairpiece. Now I look like my childhood hero…
Yeah. Fuck yeah. Gonzo.
“So, if you could have voted for Trump or Hillary, who would you have voted for?”
Eat my shit. No. Don’t. Instead: Swim across a lake of battery acid, through a maze of floating burning tires, just to eat the corn out of my…
I got carried away. But that can happen when faced with such a despicable question. An insulting, stinging question so devoid of sense—
“Who would you vote for, you commie nazi skinhead hippy creep!?”
As a Canadian, I’d have to vote for the candidate who best exemplifies the qualities sought by those who espouse global programs like “Political Correctness” and “Carbon Taxes,” yet I do not consider myself Canadian—or belonging to any nation—yadda yadda…so I wouldn’t vote for either. I’d sooner vote for a pig, rather than scumbag criminal A or douchebag billionaire B.
I’ve only voted once, and it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever done. I got suckered. Duped. Bushwacked. The oyster was shucking me!
Anywhat, never again.
“It’s all bullshit, and it’s all bad for you.”
I’ve been clean ever since and there’s no going back now.
No, not even hypothetically.
Hey, Trump fans: he’s a stooge; a few things will change, but the big ball will keep on rolling…
So go have a day.