Christmas at the Yossarian's has always been a grueling mind fuck. We learned at a young age to jabber excitedly about socks, banana chips, stirrup pants, and long johns. We'd pretend that those cruelties were exactly what we had written santa for.
"A summer sausage gift basket and a sweatshirt! He got my letter!"
weren't poor, we could have just as easily had our dreams come true for
the same amount of dough spent on our shitty gifts. The problem wasn't
money. The problem was my mom.
The thing is this, my mom
is a rotten passive aggressive cunt who raised all of her children with
the love and skill of a sadistic 11yr old babysitter who wasn't being
paid to stay late. Every situation became a perverse opportunity to
teach us a lesson about the harshness of the world. We trained like
spartan warriors, bench pressing disappointment and stifling pain. No
preference of ours went unchallenged, no pleasure uncrushed, no hope
"That's life in the big city"
Well I've been in the big city since that bitch kicked me out and changed
the locks twenty years ago, and she's still the worst thing that's ever
happened to me.
I guess what i'm trying to say is, merry christmas!