The Holidays for me are…
Money, new cars, cocaine and lying my ass of
Holy shitballs, do I love the Holidays. Do you wanna know why? Because then, the everyday Karen has the firm belief that spending an absurd money on cheap, plastic decoration might win her some trophies or friends in her neighborhood, when the only thing she will get is a beating from her husband for the bill. It’s the time of year when your estranged son realizes that the only way he will ever get back into his mother’s will after he drunkenly pissed on her chihuahua, is by proving his love with dollar signs and expensive trinkets. It’s that magical, MAGICAL time when the cheating husband will use every fucking penny he has to buy his wife some sad, meaningless jewelry in hopes that she will forgive his infidelity, all the while I’m probably screwing her the moment he turns his back on her again.
I love to screw people, and to screw them over.
Nothing gets my blood going like proving how much better I am than everyone else. And every day that I strut into this office, with a new suit on, a new ring, and the keys to a new Tesla, I prove my superiority. Ever since that whole #Me2 charade, whipping my dick out won’t really do anymore, but metaphorically speaking, every day that I walk into the office, I am slapping every one of these fuckers with my massive schlong right across their cheek.
And they love it. Otherwise, they’re fired.
The Holidays profit creates a massive surplus, and who deserves it more than me? No one. I worked my ass off to get to where I am, while Johnny down on the lower floor can barely talk to a woman without shitting himself, I’m not even sure he can wipe himself. Or Jenny, who’s clam smells like that one bar in India, specifically, the urinals, only difference is, the urinals at the very least gets cleaned by that tiny soap, while Jenny’s cooch probably hasn’t been cleaned in forever.
But a chad like me needs a little pick-me-up on occasion to keep on going. Well, let’s just say, it’s gonna be a white fucking Christmas for old Danny here! I remember when I was a wee lad, wasn’t able to hide it at all, would trip like crazy and everyone knew I was on something. Now, I could sniff a mountain, and not a single soul would know. I could stuff 100 bags of it up my ass, and security wouldn’t even ask for a cavity search, for there is no way, that a guy as chill as me could be harboring enough cocaine to blow up Hiroshima a second time stuffed up his shitter.
But of course, I have standards, or rather, a cover. A man ought to have a wife and kids. Well, as soon as my wife dried up, which was like two weeks into dating, the mistresses were aplenty. I had to visit the desert on some occasions to tend the illusion, even birthed two kids out of those visits. I’m that good, that even in the driest of deserts, I can make an oasis bloom. My God, I’m a fucking poet even, you should write that down!
Of course, the kids are with the nanny, whom I also have screwed from time to time, and the wife is with the spa, the girls, or the booze. Nothing like a Mimosa or thirty to suppress what a sad farce your life has become. I’ve signed a prenup, the moment that bitch attempts to screw me back, she’ll be out on the streets, and trust me, that oasis I’ve planted has withered goddamn years ago, ain’t no one traveling back to Sahara.
After banging approximately every female at the Christmas party, that couldn’t sue me or hasn’t been tapped before, as the astute family man I am, I come home to my mansion to greet my kids and wife. They’ve already started opening some presents, my wife into her fourth wine bottle. Maybe I’ll get her a little vacation to rehab next year as a gift. Last year it had only been two bottles at this point.
“Daddy, daddy! Look what mommy gave me!”
Little Nicholas holds up an action figure with bigger pecs than any guy I’ve ever seen before. Dear god, if that kid turns gay, I don’t know what I’ll do, probably shove him back into the closet and seal it shut. If that doesn’t work, well, there’s always the woodchipper.
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful, it goes so well with the gift daddy got you, right honey?” the wife says.
She squints at me, taking a big gulp. She knows the nannies bought them for us. She knows what I did at the Christmas party. She always does. So I sit down next to her, give her a coy kiss on the cheeks and say:
“Of course, sweetie, daddy always knows what’s best. Cause you have the best daddy in the world, what would you do without me?”
She takes another gulp, a gulp of defeat.
Good, I always loved women who knew to do these two things: