It’s that time again! Well, it was that time, and today it’s past again. Christmas, the most ferocious eating competition on the Northern hemisphere. ‘Cause I have been neglecting you lately, the internet, believe me I know. I’ve been working a 120% this fall, and when you get back at two in the morning there’s just nothing left to say. Especially when you have cable and five different Discovery channels.
I don’t understand why people do this thing called work.
I only work as a supplement to —
I only study as a supplement to —
And feel free to fill in the blanks for yourself.
At least that’s how it is for me. Neither of those make me fulfilled.
This autumn I didn’t have any exams at the university, so I thought ‘Why not try out a 9-5?’ and thus it happened I became Joe Sixpack. Except that my work more often than not requires me to work late evenings and nights, making a social life pretty unsustainable. That, and no president candidate tried to buy me out.
It’s been a terrific view into the life of the average Joe; the kind of life that’s all work and family, cars and mortgages, bills and small winnings in the lottery. Not to mention the dreadful family stuff you have to sit through. "Be kind and shut up," Lady C said to me. "It’s only good for you that you have to experience something different." … Waterboarding’s different too.
But then Christmas came and I wanted to see my family. Lady C went with me, with all the presents we’d bought to ourselves. Earlier that year she’d asked me what I really wanted for Christmas, not just something we needed, like aprons and towels. "I want a really good handjob," I said. But it had to be something she could buy, she insisted. "A really good handjob?" I maintaned. Well, something she could buy without breaking Norwegian law, as of 2009. Or any social norms, for that matter.
"INFLATABLE SHEEP!" I replied. "Six of them! And a nice life-size statue of Jesus."
So on Christmas eve, handing me the envelope we were both really excited. She got me the inflatable sheep, seven of them, but I didn’t really get them. The card inside the envelope read: Through this gift from LADY C you have donated SEVEN inflatable sheep to relieve sexual predators all across Central Europe. We are grateful for your support to our ongoing relief effort, SIGG3, and we wish you a Sexy XXX-Mas and an Orgasmic New Year.
With tears in my eyes I handed C the aprons and towels that I’d got her for X-Mas.
Later that evening after we’d been stuffed with the traditinal Christmas swine, we withdrew for an hour to digest the food. Having recently made the bed, Lady C suffered an immediate urge to lay down, which we subseqently did. We laid down, but there was no one getting laid, as this kind of fatty food will make you go into a coma unless you digest it properly. Lady C fondled with my love handles when she suddenly exclaimed: "OH MY GOD! IT’S GIGANTIC!"
She had found a piece of lint (see: navel lint, or more commonly ‘belly button lint’ or ‘navel fluff’, gotta love wikipedia) which, true to her recent statement, was quite larger than my usual produce.
But my mother and my grandmother was in the next room NOT thinking about lint. If anything, it made for an interesting and kind of uncomfortable Christmas regardless of internet connectivity.
Sorry for a half-wit blog post, but I’m in the middle of arranging a New Year’s Dinner party and ’cause C is sick, I’m gonna have to pull the sleigh, so to speak. Whatever it is that you do on New Year’s Eve, it might not even be your New Year’s Eve yet if you’re Chinese, buddhist, mormon, a dog or have green eyes; have a Happy New Year and best wishes from yours truly! And I’ll see you all in 2009.