The black light of holiday switches on once more to illuminate the psychic Rorschach of hidden stains smeared across your family. Christmas is not a celebration. It is a mouth, a hunger, swallowing joy day-by-day with its approach. It is a pitiless, blinking, LED riot of bad memories and tomorrow's worse memories.
Front yards sprawl gangrenously resplendent with nightmare phosphorescence in the crisp winter nights. Their merriness is their danger. Glowing in the dark like the lure of abyssal predators. Beckoning you to Get In the Spirit. Make no mistake, doom rides for millions. No headlines are written of the horror of this beast. Dishes broken, chests seized in stressed coronary. Misery is the gift. 'Tis the reason for the season.
No. Rise up. Rise. Burn the churches. Burn the synagogues. Burn the Hello Kitty store next to the Yankee Candle. Smash the Calendar Store. Let the blood of their lies decorate 365 Days of Dilbert. Cast off the yoke of doorbusters. Stalk the salesmen and women. Strangle them with the intercom phones.
Let this be the Last Christmas!
Up on the rooftop, suspended by steel cables, hooks through surgical eyelets implanted in the meat of their backs. Hanging prone and gasping. Cavities opened by electric saws from neck to groin, ribcages bisected and spread, intestines dangling like the trailing tentacles of a jellyfish. The cluster of vital organs, still living, still pulsing with bodily function. Here is the raw shape of human life. Without skin or meat or bones. Just exactly what is needed. Blood circulated through mobile dialysis. System flooded with stimulants to prevent loss of consciousness. Gaze upon them as they dwindle. Twee guro royalty. Thermal pajamas turned a deep, dark red. Soon their precious peacoat will bristle with maggots.
Revolt against the mute fury of devices that describe our existence down to our final, quivering, bank holiday lurch into terminal obsolescence. Punish those who would define our short lives one cute kitten picture at a time. No Bible verse will inspire this day. No funniest political cartoon. Is there such a thing? No movie quote and accompanying picture will stop the six kilograms of screws and nails packed tightly around the explosive. One thousand supersonic shrapnel slivers combat the Ling Chi horror of ICanHazCalendar. Death by a thousand hilarious quotes from the Office. 2011 Day-to-Day. Pam's slack whore eyes decorated with your suicide viscera. That's what she said. Far Side blown to pulp. Penny Arcade a Day in Hell. Leonard Cohen's recording of Hallelujah on the in-store speakers to harrow your lingering hue.
A lone man, disheveled, smeared with blood, track suit torn, stumbling through the mall. Was the promise of the $79 blu-ray players worth it? A trap. The deals. The advertisements. It was all a trap. The trampled contents of stores spill out into his path like fallen bricks. He can feel the rotten bones crumbling underfoot. There are bodies buried in the Holiday ruins. Vroooom! it exults. Too soon. He searches desperately for an escape. Anti Claus is coming. Riding on a Rheinmetall Blitzer 800cc low-rider, side car full of severed heads. It wears a hockey mask. Its body is sheathed in blood. The beast's laughter can be heard over the roar of the engine. The motorcycle explodes up the escalator, catching air, crushing mannequins painted with unholy slogans of the unholiday. He freezes. There is no escape, he realizes as he looks upon an Abercrombie gibbet filled with dismembered torsos wearing ironic Christmas sweaters. He turns. The beast is almost upon him. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. The chainsaw churns with hunger.
In the desert of Africa a mother jackal howls and yelps. The child is born, squalling, taken into the hands of the coven. Their master in his terrifying, eyeless bird-mask raises the newborn over his head so that all can see it in the light of the dying sun. So beautiful and perfect. They raise their voices in song. Halls are decked. Grandmas got run over. The infant ceases its crying. The mark is upon its face. The sign of the prophecy.
A very Merry Christmas indeed...
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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