THE FUCKIN CRIMBO

Are you looking forward to the fuckin Crimbo yourself? I bet you are. You look the sort. Family reunion this year is it? Are you going to eat up your pudding with a little spoon and pat your little belly? Are you going to pat your little belly and wander around the sitting room with a hot toddy in your hand talking about the year you’ve had? I bet you are. I can hear you now:
‘Oh, 2011 was rough on the office stationary supply game but we knuckled down and things will pick up again next year please God.’
You’ll be going on like that to your siblings but they won’t be listening. They’ll be thinking about something else. Your mother will be smiling at you though. She’ll be smiling and nodding encouragingly but make no mistake, she’ll be silently wishing you were struck with a sudden case of lockjaw and forced to shut your yap. You’ll eventually notice that you’re not appreciated of course. After about eight hot toddies you’ll notice and you’ll emit some cutting remark about your sister’s choice of career. It’ll all kick off then. Oh, there’ll be shouting alright. It’ll be like the final scene in a Mike Leigh film. Everyone’s kids will get upset because the grown-ups are fighting and your mother will sigh and go to bed early.

It’s going to be a disaster. Mark my words. You, in your little party hat, trying not to look at your Uncle Gerry as he sits there next to you adjusting his newly fitted colostomy bag for comfort. That won’t stop you stuffing your fat face though. It’s the same every year: your lips smeared in chocolate while homeless people are turfed back out onto the road, freezing to death after being served a paltry plate of mechanically separated meat product by the Knights of Columbanus. Jesus wept. Enjoy your fuckin Crimbo! . . .sucker.