If there’s one thing I’ve been hanging out to hear my whole life, it has to be, “Congratulations arsehole, you just killed Christmas”.
That’s why on Christmas Eve this year I sat on the front veranda in my rocking chair with a shotgun across my lap and my false teeth in a glass of solution on a footstool by my side.
I had a photograph taped to the inside of my hand, and if it was the last thing I did, I was going to kill that bastard who every year flew his sleigh onto my roof and clip-clopped his reindeer around and then let them out into the yard to shit on my lawn and piss on the wheels of my car.
So I waited, and waited, and drank half a case of beer, and waited, and waited.
Finally, just before midnight, I heard the sound of sleighbells.
When I saw the sleigh come around the corner, I didn’t even wonder why it was on the ground and not flying through the air. I saw that fat man in his red and white suit and sore red.
A crowd of neighbours gathered at the sound of gunshots.
I ran up, my shotgun still smoking from both barrels. I expected, any minute, someone to say, “Congratulations arsehole, you just killed Christmas”.
But Jimmy from across the road just said, “Fuck Alfy, why did you shoot old Harry? He was playing Father Christmas for the kids.”
I heard more bells, and looked around to see the real Santa taking off from my roof. He gave me the bird. Next year Santa, next year I’ll blow that middle finger clear off.