Merry Christmas?

I climbed my neighbor's Christmas tree, and God poked my eye out with a thistle. We are no longer on speaking terms. I find this disturbing because I no longer have anyone to talk to when I am in the bathroom, and I hate being alone in there. My girlfriend won't do it, so now I just talk to myself. This wouldn't normally bother me that much because talking to yourself is excellent practice if one frequents NY city. Panhandlers are less inclined to do business with people crazier than them. However, they don't let me in NY anymore since last summer when I tried to exerminate all the hotdog cart people. Long story.

Regardless of all that, Christmas is just a week away, and if God and I do not make amends soon, I fear that PS3 I really want might come to me in the form of a Gameboy, or something worse like Atari. It happened twice to me before. When I was four, all I wanted was a BB gun - what I got was a pogo-ball. And when I was nine, all I wanted was a dirt bike, and the son of a bitch spit a chewed up cookie in my sock. Why go through all that when a simple 'no' would suffice? I'll tell you: It's because he is a malicious bastard who hates skinny, good-looking children. What an asshole!

As you can see, I make no distinction between God, and Santa. They are both the same person, just like Jesus and the singer of CCR. I know these things because God shares more in casual bathroom talk then he would ever share during a sniveling prayer session - that's just business. It's just like the cheary, full-o-life waitress at Ruby Tuesdays who hates your guts.

You may say that, there is no such thing as Santa/God. Well then, how do you explain the cookie incident? My mom did that once, but that was because I lost a pee-wee soccer game that she had a lot of money riding on - she wouldn't do that on Christmas. Trust me, God was behind it, and believe me when I also say that there are no coincidences: That flat tire, your bald spot, your gay drug addict son who gives blow jobs in the park for crack - they are all just little pieces of God's questionable taste of humor sent down from above to keep you guessing. He's such a joker. And that is why I need to figure out how best to situate myself within his good graces - Do you think I want to end up giving blow jobs to buy my own PS3?! I hate cock!!! But I love that PS3 so much, who knows what I might do.

Don't worry, mom, no cock will be sucked. It's just a figure of speech...that I just made up. Before that happens, I'll become a panhandler in NY city like the ones above. Those guys make a killing - more than dentists I hear. One time, I was walking down the street in NY when I guy in designer clothes comes up to me (I was in my best homeless costume to deter such advances) and asked me for a dollar fitty two! That guy was clearly a professional. The point I am trying to make here is that I have options. Making amends with God may not be my best option, and it's certainly not the most desirable. Personally, I think God owes ME an apology, but he would never admit fault. One time, in the bathroom, I beat him at a game of Stratego and we didn't talk for years because he says that I cheated. Now that I think about it, this occurred around the same time my foot was covered in oatmeal spit...

There is one flaw in the panhandler plan. New members to the union (known to the public as the Salvation Army) during this season usually need to dress up in a Santa costume and ring bells all day outside of department stores. It sounds nice, but all that money you collect needs to be shared with all the higher-ups. If that is the position they assign me I'm screwed. It would take months to earn enough money to buy that system. No matter what happens, tho, I will get what I want.