White Gooey Christmas

Sweet mother of Jesus H. L. Ron Mohammed, today is a glorious day, but not because some liberal, longhaired hippie bastard in sandals was born 2000 years ago. No, the ole’ X-mas doesn’t carry much weight around my household. What does, you ask?

Masturbation.

Alas, my home has seen precious little masturbation over the past few weeks, mostly because a couch surfing friend has been interloping in my prime Spank Zone, the living room, and while I do enjoy the company of friends, three weeks worth of said friend and his dog’s company was seriously cutting into “John’s Special Thrice-Daily Alone Time”. I’ve found myself more easily agitated, unable to think clearly, and prone to short bursts of inexplicable violence. Dan asked me what I wanted for Christmas, so I dropkicked him. See? Inexplicable.

But my houseguest and his dog are gone now: good news for me, but bad news for my little eggnog squirting, crotch crucifix. The next few days are gonna be a rough for him! With no one infringing on my personal space, I’ll have time to treat my meat weasel to an extended session of hardcore bologna pillorying. I’m breaking out all the stops – lube, tissues, four new porn DVDs, soft lighting, romantic music, a fine merlot, and possibly a couple mickeys, just in case I try to change my mind like the silly bitch that I am.

Too many people put too great an emphasis on loving others. Once you’ve mastered loving yourself -- and I have -- life becomes much less complicated. No more worries about disease, pregnancies, husbands, the age of consent, crossing state lines, or pistol whippings in dark alleys by dark pimps. Is all that really worth it, just to catch a nut? No, of course not.

So if, perchance, you should hear terrified howling on this silent, holiest of nights, when not even the mouse is supposed to be stirring, don’t call the police – it’s just me manhandling my penis. Just listen to that fucker scream!