An Empty Christmas Parcel

Happy Holida... Oh, let's just skip the trivial phrases... Although, for me, the phrase is not quite so meaningless because it rings in my ears like the mockery of a grammar school ruffian. My holidays were far from happy... but, in hindsight, I see that they contained a grain of truth similar to that found in a well-crafted parable.

It was Christmas Eve and I was on my way to see my favourite whore when I ran into a friend of a friend outside of Marks & Spencer. His name is Avery Mann and he is the singular model citizen of the modern world--he lives an unspeckled workaday life and worships, above all, the holy notion of Family. Needless to say I despise the chap and would stab him if I knew I could get away with it. But, my goodness, the man is a master of persuasion and somehow coaxed me to his house to eat a Christmas goose with his family. I'm not quite sure how he did it--I think I was so taken aback by his constant chatter and positive demeanor that I simply could not turn him down.

Now, Dear Reader, the conventions of the season would lead you to believe that I am going to tell you a heartwarming story of family and "love" because we communally ate a roasted fucking bird. But I assure you, if this was true in the Victorian Age (and who's to say it is), time has altered the truth to the point that it is as trivial as saying "Happy Holidays" to the miserable automatons of the world who are incapable of experiencing emotion.

First off, the bird was dry and the wine was like cat's piss. Second off, the family had nothing interesting to say--the teenaged son spoke of nothing but explosions in awful Hollywood films and Avery spoke only of his job as an accountant and his superficial love for his wife (who, I believe, might be made of plastic). Still, despite the awful wine, I got extremely drunk and the wife demanded I give her the keys to my roadster. I, conversely, demanded she lay with me in her husband's bed. She never responded and the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur (though I vaguely remember a game of Scrabble--Trivial Pursuit would be more apt).

Oh how I wish I had woken face-down and shivering in a pile of snow! But I was not so lucky... Rather, I awoke in a twin sized bed in a room that smelled of potpourri and Lysol. Thankfully I found my way to the washroom where I found some children's Gravol and a bulk bottle of NyQuil to help ease the pain and sorrow. Oh, it was absurd to drink four doses of NyQuil in the sterile hell of the guest room while exploring the upper registers of cable TV, but at least the absurdity combined with the intoxication of the cold syrup put a smile on my face--though it was a devil's grin.

Upon awakening in the early evening I found a note on the floor in my own handwriting. It said, "I am an old-fashioned devil in a new-fashioned hell. How I long for the good old days."