Dec. 11—Hey friends. You’re lookin’ good out there you mask-wearing, vax-bearing, opinion-blaring humans.
I got you a present for the holidays. Close your eyes and open your hands.
Surprise! It’s a Saturday publication date for the Colorado Daily!
Take a deep breath. I know that’s all you wanted after a tumultuous two years of never-ending drama and world-wide mandate confusion. So you’re welcome. You can make my gift out to “cash.”
This change was plopped on us suddenly, too, so apologies for not having a chance to tell you folks earlier.
There you all were on Friday, ma in her kerchief and you in your cap, springing out of bed at the crack of 6 a.m., running to the nearest newspaper stand. When arose such a clatter!
There was no Colorado Daily.
Now you know and knowing is half the battle. We’ll be distributing papers on Saturdays here on out.
Now let’s talk about that thick ass jolly man decked out in red velour.
Dear Santa, are we sitting on your lap this year? There still is a stench of unvaxxed humans emanating from corners of our privileged country, so I thought I’d check.
Rumors and misinformation from conservative elite say that the COVID vaccine is a steaming pile of microchips, infertility, liberal tears and hunks of panda testicles.
And poor you, Mr. Claus, you have to placate lines of snot-drenched children who climb all over you for a moment of ear time. Meanwhile, Karen, Becky with the Good Crotch Hair, Nancy and the Mimosa Moms wait for their lap-line waiting kids at the mall food court to catch up on the hot goss.
“I heard that the new formula for the Moderna vaccine has pieces of dog flesh in it. My husband Chad said that if we get the shot, it will change the evolution of humans and our future kin will become part dog,” Karen said, slurping a pomegranate margarita, flavored with 2 percent real fruit juice, 97 percent chemically enhanced fruit paste. “Speaking of Chad. Chad, honey! Don’t forget you have your Brotox appointment today!”
Chad, putting out the vibes at the mall fountain, made an appointment to plump his face flesh with clostridium botulinum — the same toxin that causes botulism — because his jowls are getting droopy.
“My church group said that Pfizer means ‘Devil’ in archaism,” Nancy chimed in, puckering after sipping on pink lemonade frosé, colored fuschia by a mixture of processed pig feet pigment and MSG. “I’m sorry, but, nope. I do not need the devil swimming through my bloodstream.”
Becky, dipping her poultry flavor-injected soy chunks — the artist formerly known as Chicken McNuggets — into a vat of apricot-flavored high-fructose corn syrup (once known as sweet-and-sour sauce), snapped her fingers at a food court employee, yelling for a bowl of maraschino cherries to sweeten up her Sex on the Beach.
“I will not put anything in my body that doesn’t have the ingredients on the lable,” Becky said, orange-dyed corn syrup dripping off her face as she washes down a handful of Paxil with processed cherry juice.
“Amen,” the ladies sang.
OK ladies, enough. It’s my turn to lap dance Santa.
Life has been nice to me, currently. I have a small cozy home I share with my little best friend child. Sure, I would enjoy more space, better pipes, a toilet that’s not from Munchkinland, a deep-house clean, a new couch, a raise, a proper fence so I can get my kid a dog and a handful of free therapy sessions. But all I really want for Christmas is people to stop being assholes.
And a date with my Silver Foxes. So jam those two things in my stocking, please, Santa baby. The Silver Foxes have been emotionally, humorously and lovingly supporting my column with emails of cheer, wit, love and joy for a decade. I am so thankful for them.
So all I want for Christmas is you.
And a booster dose of Moderna. And a bottle of bourbon. And fine, an ounce of Blue Dream, too.