Merry Mayan Apocalypse & a Happy No Year.

Well, I have been nicely naughty.

Oh, it's the bloody holidays again. Well, why write new stuff for Christmas? No one else does. What's on TV all week? The billionth repeat of Charlie Brown's Christmas. Darlings, Charlie Brown is on Social Security. He's almost 70. How The Grinch Stole Christmas. No, not the unbearable Jim Carrey horror movie (Though that is on, if you know any children you really hate!), but the delightful animated version starring my ex-husband Boris Karloff. Darlings, Boris has been dead for over 40 years. The show still airs every December! Also on, the hundred billionth repeat of Frank Crapra's It's a Maudlin Life with Jimmy Stewart. That picture was shot 100 years ago. For everyone in that movie these days, It's a Wonderful Death, because they are all dead, and if I ever have to sit through that movie again, I'll kill myself too. If an angel had ever shown Crapra what Life would have been like if he'd never been born, he'd have seen that no one ever made this movie, and the world was full of a lot fewer bored people every Christmas.

The Charlie Brown Christmas show is a bit "edgier" this year.

What else is on? Repeats of all the Christmas shows that have been on every single year since the manger in Bethlehem. (If we pretend for a moment that the Christmas Fable is actually true, and is not what it so obviously actually is, a myth. Hint: Virgins don't get pregnant. Believe me, I tried that one on my mother a century ago and even she wasn't stupid enough to fall for it.) Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (Had a nip or two have you Rudy? Me too.), The Little Bummer Boy, Rudolph the Big-Dicked Pornstar, Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Story, and of course, 8000 different versions of A Christmas Carol. Much as I love Charlie Dickens (And I might add, he adored me), how many times can I see that same exact story? Who is your favorite Scrooge? Alastair Sim? Albert Finney? George C. Scott? (George, here's a note that obviously your director was afraid to give you: Scrooge is supposed to be English. You might at least have thought about trying an English accent) Sir Patrick Stewart? Mr. Magoo? Scrooge McDuck? Paul Ryan?

Again, Jim Carrey does not make my cut. The duck scores over Jim.

Not that there's nothing new. We do get a fresh Doctor Who Christmas special, Doctor Who and the Snowmen. At last, a reason to look forward to Christmas! After all, it was, of course, The Doctor who saved us from the Mayan Apocalypse. (The world was supposed to end on a Friday? Clearly it was a mischisel. They didn't mean to chisel "End of the World"; they mean to chisel "End of the Week.")

Our 2012 Christmas present from the BBC.

So let's dip into my bag of familiar annual Christmas postings.

First, of course, our Mel Gibson classic. After all, what says "Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Men" more than Mel Gibson ranting against Jews?

One of these guys is only a nightmare before Christmas; the other is a nightmare all year long.

The Passion of the Elf
by Inclement Clarke Morehead

'Twas the night before Christmas, all through Morehead Heights
Not a creature was stirring, 'cept deep in my tights;
My pantyhose hung by the chimney with Nair,
In hopes that Huge Jackman soon would be there;
The vodka was nestled all snug in my head,
While visions of sugar-tits made my legs spread;
Like me in my turban, the brave with no head,
Had just gone to sleep, or perhaps we were dead.
When outside my skull there arose such a clatter,
I fell out of bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I crawled like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up my hash.
Then mooning my breasts from my new-fallen pants,
Gave the luster of porn to my sagging implants.
When what to my blurry red eye there appears,
But some really big gay, and eight quite tiny queers,
And a little old driver, so drunken and glib, son,
I knew in a moment it must be Mel Gibson.
More rapid than virgins, his coursers they came,
And he humped them, and shouted, and cursed them by name;
"Now, Flasher! Pole Dancer! Fag Prancer, you Vixen!
On Slutty! On Trampy! On Scrotum and Nixon!
To the top of her porch! To the top of her house!
Now dash away! Dash away! Tear off her blouse!"
As dry heaves that before the wild hurricane barf,
I can’t get these stains off my lovely headscarf.
Up to my house-top they flew just like Krypto,
With the drunken old fool who made Apocalypto.
And then, in a flash, I heard on my ceiling,
The horrible sound of my juices congealing.
When I stuck out my butt, to show my endzone,
Down my chimney Mel Gibson came hard, with a groan.
He was painted bright blue, and was covered with gore,
And he smiled and he laughed and he called me a whore;
A bundle of buttplugs was flung on his back.
He was stinking of gin, my aphrodisiac.
His eyes -- how they watered! His dimples -- how sexy!
I don’t know why he gives the Jews apoplexy.
His wet drooling mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as yellow as snow;
The stump of a leg he held tight in his teeth,
And the blood it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face, narrow mind, and round belly,
That shook when he raved, like petroleum jelly.
He was skinny and drunk, a right smelly old elf,
I got damp when I smelt him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his knob,
And his purple-eyed warrior started to throb.
He spoke not a word, but just started to jerk,
And soon stained my poster of Young Captain Kirk.
Then shoving his finger inside of his nose,
And giving a prod, up my chimney he rose;
He soon gave his team a quite mean disemboweling,
And then filmed their deaths, as they all lay there howling.
Last I heard him exclaim the incredible news,
"Happy Christmas to all. Now go kill some Jews."

When Mel says "Ho, ho, ho!" He's not laughing; he's ording a date or three from an escort service.

What is more Christmassy than Utah, where the Mormon Church shows its love for everyone by contributing money and activism to deprive gay people from having the right to marry. After all, who knows more about "Traditional Marriage" than a man married to 12 women, most of them teenage cousins of his? This past year they tried to take over the entire country by installing one of their most odious members as President. They failed spectacularly. Ho, ho, ho indeed!

Little Dougie's family was Mormon on his dad's side, so nothing says "Christmas" to him more than fending off Mormons. So let's all sing that lovely song from Meet Me in Salt Lake City:

Have yourself a very Mormon Christmas,
Make your loafers light.
From now on our homos will be out of sight.

Have yourself a very Mormon Christmas.
Make the Yuletide gay.
If they'd won, our weddings would be wiped away.

Here we are, what a pity,
Salt Lake City,
Oh wow.
Faith-based friends who are queer for us,
Can't be near to us,
They vow.

Some day soon the courts will all resolve this,
If the Latter-Day Saints allow,
But till then, tell Brigham Young to screw a cow,
And have yourself a very Mormon Christmas now.

That's Little Dougie, his mother and his sister Gretchen on Christmas 1955. The night before, this room was stuffed full of Mormons.

So, what would be the perfect Christmas gift for everyone on your Christmas list? You guessed it!



Tallyho, Tallulah! all takes place in the summer, so it will make you feel nice and warm on a cold winter evening.


So darlings, I'm your Auntie Christ, keeping the Christ out of Christmas. On behalf of myself, Little Dougie, the Headless Indian Brave, Eduardo my gardener's son, and everyone here at Morehead Heights, I'm wishing a very happy holiday to all of you little people sitting out there, in the dark, watching me, and touching yourselves.

Cheers, darlings!

Welcome to the Mayan Afterworld!