Well folks, we’ve come to the end. For those of you still reading, I hope I’ve stolen a few pleasant minutes from your employers; for those of you just checking in because it’s Christmas Eve and you’re stuck on an interminable car ride with your father and deaf, decrepit grandfather, and a GPS that apparently “doesn’t know what the hell it’s talking about”, I SYMPATHIZE. BELIEVE ME, I SYMPATHIZE.
All right, the butcher’s bill for the month:
We received 7 characters, 13 hats, 4 mugs, 24 shitty little gubbins, a mere 4 weapons (5 if you count “cardboard box on fire”), a practically bacterial fire truck that makes me apoplectic with rage, and a staircase in a pear tree. As far as fuckery goes, I received far less bodily fluids than I expected, and also waaaaaaay more figurines; ht need some help. We ended up with a geisha, a disco dude, an Elite Fighter Droid, a reanimated limo driver, a sociopathic 800-lb gorilla, a Lego version of me during Hurricane Sandy, a flaming pegasus skeleton with a mummy rider, and an Armenian DJ whose candle burned out long before his legend ever did. This on top of the two envelopes that I didn’t open from George (sorry dude, the cast was reaching “incredibly fucked up Downton Abbey” proportions) and some fuckery from Courtney that never arrived and will likely be the death of several postal workers, as that girl scary.
Thanks to everyone (and seriously, thanks) who sent stuff in–as soon as I finished cursing your family tree, I thought very warm thoughts about each and every one of you. You can see the 2012 ABAD Class Photo at the end of the post, and guess who got voted “Most likely to consume bananas and souls”.
The almost schoolgirlish naivete with which I thought I might attempt to write a different genre makes me chuckle now; it was all I could do not to have this thing turn into Lost: Season 2. I tried very, very hard to keep continuity up; if you can find a single thing I contradicted, then I will give you two dollars, you cheap pedantic bastards.
All right all, have yourselves a merry little Christmas.
DAYS 23 and 24
Ew. Even I don’t know what those wet spots on my desk are.
What we have here is some pretty standard Legos. They are so straightforward and echt-Lego that this Day Box must be a trap. It’s really the only explanation
Oh, yawn and a half. You’re making the days I got wall storage units look positively orgasmic.
Also, NO one wraps presents like this anymore. My friends and I did our Secret Santa night last week and the haul ranged from a (very nice) ball gag in an old Tiffany’s box to a bidet toilet seat wrapped in Lannister/GoT covered printer paper (ahemthankyouverymuchahem).
OK, Day 24′s inevitable Santa. Let’s do this.
Opening up a package and receiving a dismembered Santa will never cease to skeeve me out every time.
Santa drives a snowmobile??? I’m dreaming of a white trash Christmas, jeez. There’s not even room for presents. This is just Santa’s utilitarian way of getting between Point A and Point B when he needs to run errands. Where’s the fucking magic?
If his world was going to end, then Robbie wanted to be at the bottom of a glass to see it. A fire chief with no water is no better than a sweatshop without children, and Robbie felt he’d earned himself a beer in the past 16 years of fire chiefdom. Knowing he was free of all of his responsibilities, there was a spring in his trudge on the way to the Dead Canary.
The Canary looked infinitely happier than when he left it last. Carl had obviously stepped in to bartend when he heard the fire alarm sound, and Leroy was a few whiskeys in, ranting about 9/11 in the corner, and DJ Trig looked rather peaceful lying in state next to Old Captain Mickey (“Cheaper than crematin’, might just make it a side business” said Carl). Robbie sidled up to the bar and ordered a Coors Blight.
Carl blew the dust out of a mug and slid it down. “Well, if you’re here and the whistle’s still blowin’, I guess we’re all in for it.”
“Yessir. Guess there’s a kind of poetry to it all,” said Robbie. “At least we’re going out in the place we loved most.”
“Mine’s actually my home. With my wife and kids.”
“Oh.” Robbie took a moment to recollect everything he’d loved, and began to replay Stevie’s voice in his head, saying “Robbie? Is that you? I’m alive, I’ve been held captive in the mines for the past 13 years,” which was what she used to cry out during sex.
“Robbie? Is that you? I’m alive, I’ve been held captive in the mines for the past 13 years!” This time, it was for real. He turned around, and there she was: paler and older, but ultimately, definitely the same Stevie Nicks he had fallen in love with. He ran across the bar and they tangled themselves into a happy reunion knot.
“Who did this to you?” That was the only question Robbie wanted to ask, preferring to save the rest of the explaining for a later time, perhaps December 25th.
“It was the Outlaw Jesse James.” Betty stepped out from behind her sister. “I’ve been tracking him for years. He will get his payback.”
“Oh. I just ran into him in the parking lot by the station. I killed him a few minutes ago,” said Robbie, shrugging his shoulders. “So…all good on that front.”
Betty looked shocked, and then relieved, and then just kind of homely. “Oh. I guess I’ll be going then.”
Leroy looked up from his beer and slurred: “The roof…the roof….the roof is on fire.”
In all of the happiness of remeeting the one he loved on their anniversary, Robbie had briefly forgotten about his impending death. “Oh–the water in the town has been turned off, so we can’t put out this year’s blaze and I don’t see how this ends any other way than in tragedy so a drink.”
Betty turned around suddenly. “Wait. I think I can help.” She pulled a wand out from her cavernous hair and concentrated, summoning thoughts of waterfalls, running faucets, snow in non-frozen form. A sudden whooshing sound filled every empty space. The crew rushed to the windows in time to see a tidal wave drain into the valley, and smoke plumes rising from the now extinguished town. A dead gorilla and droid leg floated by.
The bar exploded with non-flammable joy, and the music started up again. As the clock struck midnight, Robbie went over to pull the lever that released the balloons and confetti that signified a fatality free Christmas EVe, which hadn’t been touched since the night of his birth. As he did so, a panel in the wall opened and an evil lair with a bound and gagged Dick Dickey appeared.
“DId you know that was there?” asked Robbie.
“Nope,” said Carl.
Betty and Robbie rushed back to untie the breathless Assistant Captain, who had very few questions despite his situation. “Ahoy! Robbie! Happy birthday!”
“Thanks man! I got your present already. Came in handy,” he said with a smile. “I was wondering where you were. Thought maybe this was the day you finally decided to go take back your kid from Sharon.”
“Did you say Sharon?” Stevie piped in. “I met a woman by that name today, it stuck out because you don’t hear that name very often. And also because she was the first woman I’d seen in thirteen years.” She paused for a second. “Not that she was much of a woman, barely put an ounce of effort into her appearance. Anyways, she’s dead.” She went back to the bar to get another nog.
“What? That means…I get my Little Dick back!!” yelled Dick, not really wanting to know more. “In the morning though. I’m sure he’ll be fine with that asshole Scott til then.” They had doubled down on the celebration and come up winners.
Stevie and Robbie looked at each other with thirteen years of latent love. The balsam sparkled in the corner, the bodies rested in the barroom, and Silver Springs smoldered.