Have you ever had one of those Christmas nights where you drink way too much, end up feeling the spins, kind of remember getting a tattoo on your ankle, maybe kissing a hobo on his head and calling him the salt of the earth, then waking up to the bright light of morning face down in a puddle of your own retched up Jim Beam and some undigested candied Hot Tamales? Only, you’re not truly face down because some kind soul has had the decency to tilt your maw slightly askew so that you don’t leave this planet in the manner of Bon Scott. That kind soul is your Christmas angel. I call her May, though that’s not even close to her real name.
I only get to see May but once a year these days, at the holidays, and the other day we were shooting the shit over a horribly mistreated chicken that came out of a failed Christmas turducken experiment, and May asked me how my campaign was going to bang the living stuffing out of Sofia Vergara since that was my new year’s resolution the previous time we had spoken, and I told her it was going well, though slightly slower than expected, and May asked me if maybe I should make a different resolution this coming year, like trying to get to second base with the gap-toothed cashier lady at the Jiffy Lube just down the block, and I said, no way, I wasn’t going to quit my plan to plant my flag in Vergara territory til the job was finished, and May applauded me for my dedication while simultaneously calling me a deluded ignoramus, and I reminded her that the reason I never scored well on IQ tests was because I’m an out of the box thinker and then she said I should own the fact that I am a moron, and take back that word and make it positive again for people like myself who wander the streets unable to tie their shoes or contemplate change for a dollar when I buy something that costs four quarters.
Then May whispered, I want to show you something hot, and I thought she meant her vagina, which even though she’s 78 years old, well, when any woman whispers that she wants to show you something hot, it’s all I could think of, but, no, it was these classic Barry Hollywood shot photos of Sofia Vergara from a half-dozen years ago or so. Just stunning bikini pictures of my object d’ Colombian lust. And after I had leered longingly at the photos for a couple minutes to four hours, May turned to me and said, ‘Bill, I believe this will be the year you tap that ass. I believe in you.’.
May, my Christmas angel. Bless you.