Christmas Hooker
Well, I've just spent all day having a Happy Christmas, and I have to say I'm glad the bastard thing only happens once a year. Sure, it's great when you're a kid - lots of presents and tons of great stuff to eat, followed by chocolate and candy, and no school for two weeks. Then you grow up, and instead of a stress-free festival of hedonism you end up with a ritual of miserable shopping, cooking, getting dragged out of bed early by over-excited kids and realizing after dinner that you've consumed enough calories to fuel an Olympic decathlete and are now guaranteed to enter the new year as a fat bastard.
I used to think I looked forward to the turkey dinner, but this year, when I got done cooking and eating it, it suddenly occurred to me that it really wasn't worth the effort. Next year I guarantee I'm not spending Christmas morning up to my elbows in lard and stuffing - we're having a fucking cheese sandwich. And a large Scotch. I realized that Christmas is mostly about doing things that you do every year, because they've become some sort of ritual, like sticking the turkey neck in your pants and pretending it's a penis:
It wasn't as funny as before...
At least we minimized the present-buying hell this year. Bison Daughter did OK, of course (no reason she shouldn't enjoy the hedonism for a few more years) but Mrs Bison and I don't get expensive shit for each other, and we had a present truce with our brothers. The only problem with this is that once you rule out the turkey dinner and the presents there really isn't much left in the whole Christmas Day thing. You don't see anyone else since they're all committed to their own personal family Christmas hell, and there's nothing to do except eat. We forced ourselves out of the house for a short walk before tea tonight, and as soon as we walked back in we were hit by a thick fog of turkey, stuffing, sprouts and colon gas (which consists mainly of recycled turkey, stuffing and sprouts). Hence the cheese sandwich for next year...
Mrs Bison did get me one very thoughtful gift this year - a copy of "The Happy Hooker", the saucy memoir of a madam called Xaviera Hollander from back in the 70s. This book (or, to be more accurate, its sequel, called "Xaviera") was an integral part of my sex education when I discovered it under my parents' bed when I was a kid. Trust me, I learned things from that book.
Next year I'm hoping for a copy of "The Hand-Reared Boy" by Brian W Aldiss, since I think I found this at around the same time, and it featured a girl called Virginia, who was known as "Virgin for short, but not for long", which I always thought was a better line than anything that wanker Shakespeare came up with. Or maybe I'll go for "A Man With A Maid", which I don't recall had much literary merit, but it was passed around at school and I ended up swapping it with a mate for a full-color scud mag which he'd "borrowed" from the newsagent. Happy days!
I might as well recognize that I'm now past it, and reminiscence is about all I have to look forward to. Bison Daughter got a CD by Ashley Tisdale from Santa, which she thinks is great, whereas I know that it's utter shite. It's soulless, over-produced, teenie-girl pop shit that could have been put out by Britney or any one of a dozen near-identical blonde consumer-bitches. Not at all like the AC/DC and Motorhead I got for Christmas when I was her age. So I'm now officially old because I hate my kid's music. Meanwhile, I got some Thin Lizzy. Let's face it, Phil Lynott's been dead about as long as Ashley fucking Tisdale's been alive, so he's not exactly current, but Chinatown pisses all over her. Which, incidentally, is about the only thing Xaviera doesn't do in her book, so I strongly suggest you get a copy.
Happy Christmas!
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
I used to think I looked forward to the turkey dinner, but this year, when I got done cooking and eating it, it suddenly occurred to me that it really wasn't worth the effort. Next year I guarantee I'm not spending Christmas morning up to my elbows in lard and stuffing - we're having a fucking cheese sandwich. And a large Scotch. I realized that Christmas is mostly about doing things that you do every year, because they've become some sort of ritual, like sticking the turkey neck in your pants and pretending it's a penis:
It wasn't as funny as before...
At least we minimized the present-buying hell this year. Bison Daughter did OK, of course (no reason she shouldn't enjoy the hedonism for a few more years) but Mrs Bison and I don't get expensive shit for each other, and we had a present truce with our brothers. The only problem with this is that once you rule out the turkey dinner and the presents there really isn't much left in the whole Christmas Day thing. You don't see anyone else since they're all committed to their own personal family Christmas hell, and there's nothing to do except eat. We forced ourselves out of the house for a short walk before tea tonight, and as soon as we walked back in we were hit by a thick fog of turkey, stuffing, sprouts and colon gas (which consists mainly of recycled turkey, stuffing and sprouts). Hence the cheese sandwich for next year...
Mrs Bison did get me one very thoughtful gift this year - a copy of "The Happy Hooker", the saucy memoir of a madam called Xaviera Hollander from back in the 70s. This book (or, to be more accurate, its sequel, called "Xaviera") was an integral part of my sex education when I discovered it under my parents' bed when I was a kid. Trust me, I learned things from that book.
Next year I'm hoping for a copy of "The Hand-Reared Boy" by Brian W Aldiss, since I think I found this at around the same time, and it featured a girl called Virginia, who was known as "Virgin for short, but not for long", which I always thought was a better line than anything that wanker Shakespeare came up with. Or maybe I'll go for "A Man With A Maid", which I don't recall had much literary merit, but it was passed around at school and I ended up swapping it with a mate for a full-color scud mag which he'd "borrowed" from the newsagent. Happy days!
I might as well recognize that I'm now past it, and reminiscence is about all I have to look forward to. Bison Daughter got a CD by Ashley Tisdale from Santa, which she thinks is great, whereas I know that it's utter shite. It's soulless, over-produced, teenie-girl pop shit that could have been put out by Britney or any one of a dozen near-identical blonde consumer-bitches. Not at all like the AC/DC and Motorhead I got for Christmas when I was her age. So I'm now officially old because I hate my kid's music. Meanwhile, I got some Thin Lizzy. Let's face it, Phil Lynott's been dead about as long as Ashley fucking Tisdale's been alive, so he's not exactly current, but Chinatown pisses all over her. Which, incidentally, is about the only thing Xaviera doesn't do in her book, so I strongly suggest you get a copy.
Happy Christmas!
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
posted by Mr Bison at
6:42 PM
4 Comments:
Holy shit, I found the Happy Hooker under my old man's side of the bed as well, I'd totally forgotten about that. Next to a copy of Escort magazine.
The internet age has pretty much destroyed this "rite of passage". Now how are kids going to grow up as well-adjusted as us?
au contraire
it is as funny as last time, but not as funny as the daytime tv program about food in china i was watching...it was bison penis! the narrator said it still had some life in it and i swear it was still twitching on the plate. it must have been three feet long, then to stop it squirming the oriental waitress slit it lengthways in two from the japs eye and said "now there are two" honestly i bet you don't get this shit over there
OK, I'll try and get one of those for next Christmas. Or grow one...
I have to say, just reading the words "slit it lengthways in two from the japs eye" made my eyes water. I can eat animal penis, but it can't look like one on the plate, and I certainly don't want it peeled in front of me.
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