Lenny Tuberose, Grand Prize Winner of the Pigdog Journal Christmas
Essay, presents a heart-warming Christmas tale of what
Christmas is all about: brutal assaults and substance
It's destined to be a Christmas classic! Read it to your
kids, around a fire and shit! Meli Kalikimaka!
A Clone Christmas In Guelph
or, "Yes, Virginia-08-A-00431, There Is a Santa
He was just laying there like a log. A big, fat log.
"Dead? Fucking right. You clocked him pretty hard.
Whad'ja have to hit him so hard for man?"
"I wanted to make sure he stayed down."
"Yeah, well he's staying down for good."
"I thought he was after the Guiness. He was, ya know, poking around and
shit." And he was, too. He had a big bag full of swag. There was no
way I was going to let that fat bastard abscond with my precious black
and white holy water, that bitter-sweet nectar of the gods. It served
him right. Still...
"What are we gonna do?" I asked.
"What are we gonna do?" Pete mimicked cruelly. I thought about hitting
him even harder than I had hit the fat guy. But I needed him to help me
get rid of the body. Maybe later.
"Let's see who this fat fuck is." Pete rummaged through the guy's
pockets and fished out a wallet. He pulled out a Sears credit card and
read off the name, "Chris Cringle. Holy shit, man, you killed Santa
Claus. You bastard."
"C'mon, that's not the real Santa Claus. This is Guelph...the place
is, you know, crawling with Santa clones this time of
Pete pulled out a driver's license and read off the name, "Chris
Cringle. He has his address listed as the North Pole."
"You fucking killed Santa Claus!"
I started laughing, but Pete was getting pretty worked
up. I mean, it was kinda funny you know. One minute the guy is a
jolly old elf, and the next minute he's compost. He had a really
funny kind of surprised look on his face too. I was laughing so hard
my sides were starting to hurt, and Pete was looking at me with murder
in his eyes.
"OK, OK," I said as the laughing fit passed. "We've got to get it
together and deal with this. What are we gonna do?"
We did some bong hits to clear our minds. Pete decided that even the
Guelph police would become suspicious at the sight of two freaks
carrying a dead Santa. "We've gotta, ya know, cut him up."
So we did. It wasn't easy and it took a long time. All those cookies
and milk and shit had turned Santa into a real lard ass. A couple of
hours (and many bong hits) later we had Santa nicely fleshed, and had
stacked the large pile of blubber and Santa meat in a neat mound in the
centre of the room.
"Ok, what now?"
"What now? We have successfully disguised his Santa nature, but we
still have to get rid of the evidence, dude."
"Oh, yeah. Unh, we could feed it to the dog..."
"We don't have a fucking dog, you asshole. Concentrate will ya!" That
was kind of harsh, you know. My feelings were sort of hurt. I did
another bong hit and the pain went away.
"We could eat him." I know, it sounds kind of gross, but we were in a
bind...and I sort of had the munchies.
"The guy musta weighed 400 pounds, for Chrissake. How much fucking Santa
can you eat? Unless..."
And that's why you are all getting meat pies for Christmas.