Merry Christmas, my dick.

First off I love Christmas. Presents are all kinds of sweet in my book, and if buying one for someone else ensures I’ll get one too, then I’m definitely gonna be part of that transaction.

Secondly, I hate Santa pictures. I hate Santa in general. But I reallyhate taking pictures with the fucker.

That being said, my office decided it was a good day to go take a picture with Santa. Of course this is the day I didn’t shower and got two hours of sleep, and worked out at the gym the night before so I’m just a reeking, greasy, sloppy, blue-eyed fuck. Course.

We make our way to Kris fuckface and amidst the swirling tornado of horseshit that is the prim assholes, starched bitches, bucktoothed chuckleheads waiting for a pic with the fatass,  I have a positive realization: I’m the third tallest motherfucker in my office. Now, I’m not a tall guy, so this is a HUGE deal for me. All my life, I’ve been banished to the front row, away from my friends and allies and surrounded the short people that I picked on from atop my ivory tower. But today was the day that all changed. Reminded that no matter the height of my friends, no matter the greatness my personality or my talents or my values or my mind or my cock: I am physically less upwardly gifted.

My delusion was that things would go well, and that this wasn’t fate dangling a fresh 20-something vag in front of me, getting me to drop my pants in arousal before swiftly kicking me in the balls. But fate is an asshole like that.

I made my way to the back, moseyed even. I was happy: crackin’ jokes, pumpin the elbows high and patting people on the back with smiles all around. I even humorously asked the tallest guy, “hey are you sure you’re tall enough to be back here?” Ho ho ho. All was well, Christmas spirit infected my soul, and soon I would have this moment of relative superiority in vertical distance from the ground recorded forever. Forever.

But then.
The fat one from human resources. She opened her mouth.

“Chris get down in the front we’re not going to be able to see you.”

I felt the cold sweat roll down my neck, while the metaphorical on-end-hair in my mind was split by an axe. My eye twitched, my knee quaked, and my hearing faded from perfect midrange to nothing but a low-pass.

“Get down in the front we can’t see you.”

What she meant was:
“Get down in front all of us are too fat to kneel in front of Santa and it’ll hurt our kankles/lard.”

I said, “Oh. Okay.”

What I meant was:


Then the picture was taken. History repeated itself and I went on as the short guy. Again. It was the most painful smile I’ve ever made for a camera in all my years on this godless earth.

I hate you, human resources thing.*
I hate you, Santa.
I hate you, fate.

*This has been a journey into the mundane. All characters mentioned are non-fictitious and totally real, but exaggerated. But I still hate them.


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