baby it’s bad out there

Yeah, so, this past weekend I went to see the family so we could have “our Christmas.” I live about a four-hour drive away, but I only make it up there about once a year or so, partially because I hate driving with a passion but, mostly, because I know from experience that if I ignore the guilt trip my mom tries to lay on me long enough, she’ll cave in and make the trip down to see me instead.

Two things:

First, it amazes me how this house I spent my most formative years growing up inside seems so very much smaller than it used to. I also don’t remember which cabinet is for glasses and which is for plates. And since I was only there for about 23 hours total, I didn’t have time to experience the nostalgia only masturbating in the bathroom seems to bring. Ah, good times.

Second, I think it’s time we all got together and had a little talk, because seriously people, we have got to do something to curb this inflatable Christmas lawn decoration problem. Maybe an intervention. With force. Because while I’m sure they were “cool” at some point a few years back, when every single trailer in the park has three or four of ’em, the novelty has worn off. Let it go.

And no, hillbilly, I don’t care if the little inflatable snow really blows inside your big inflatable snow globe. And no, hillbilly, I don’t care if the little inflatable carousel goes round and round inside your big inflatable snow globe. And no, hillbilly, I don’t know if Ernie Earnheart won the race, and I don’t want any snuff, and I’m not watching any “fuck films” with you, either.

There is nothing festive about decorating your front yard like a used-car dealership.

Repeat.

There is nothing festive about decorating your front yard like a used-car dealership.

Why not try something new, like maybe stuffing some lights down into empty bottles of Boone’s or Maddog, or making a tree out of PVC pipe, old tires and empty cans of Skoal? You know you’ve got all that shit lying around the yard anyway…