Build Date: Wed Jun 17 20:00:18 2026 UTC
Nobody runs any real applications anyway. The whole purpose of personal computing is to tinker with shit. Everybody else (who isn't tinkering) is only using their Pentium Professionals as glorified typewriters. Applications, ha ha ha.
-- Ratsnatcher
| A Clone Christmas In Guelph -- Reported 1998-12-25 13:03 by Lenny Tuberose | |
|
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 abuse. 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 He was just laying there like a log. A big, fat log. "Is he...?" "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 year." Pete pulled out a driver's license and read off the name, "Chris Cringle. He has his address listed as the North Pole." "Shit..." "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?" "Huh?" "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. |
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