For years I've thought about how disgusting this overweight glutenous tub-of-lard looks when he is invading my house through my god damn chimney...and more importantly, how in the hell he gets back up.
So this year, I'm gonna catch him. And when I do, I'm gonna torture him. How? Well I'm glad you asked.
So here's my ingenious plan:
On Christmas eve, I'm going to use my fireplace to make Christmas dinner instead of making it on the stove top. That way, all the greasy goodness will go up the chimney and make a nice greasy mess in its interiors. Then, as a precaution for Santa's apparent ninja-like chimney-climbing skills, I'll take a can of PAM and spray the interiors of the chimney to make sure that fat son-of-a-bitch ass can get down, but not get back up.
Then, I'm gonna set up the net I bought at the Home Depot last year but never had a chance to use at the bottom chunk of the chimney so when he falls, I'd be able to catch him. All I have to do after that is sit in the living room on my rocking chair with a shotgun and wait for him to arrive. If my girlfriend is in a good mood, I might get her to give me a blowjob while I watch "How The Grinch Stole Christmas" on Comcast.
Of course, experience tells me that the fat bastard is never on time, so I'll probably end up falling asleep waiting for him. Not to worry though, I'll crank up the fireplace to a comfortable temperature (don't want him freezing to death before I can interrogate him with my cattle prod) and leave him a couple issues of Reader's Digest that I stole from my dentist.
Come morning, I'll release him from the net and tie him to a chair. I'll then proceed to torture him for my own pleasure. How, you ask? Well first, I'm gonna feed him nothing but gingersnaps and beer for 72 hours, and not let him use the washroom. I will also make him watch reruns of the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where Robert tries to sneak into Raymond's house, back to back. During this time, I will repeatedly ask him where all the things I ever wished for went. When I was 6, I wished for a rocket launcher because a kid in my class stole a dollar from me. When I was 9, I wished for a snow blower because my dad kept making me shovel the driveway. When I was 11, I wished for a heat seeking missile that would blow up my elementary school. None of those things, unfortunately, ever arrived. So either this son of a bitch just completely ignored my Christmas wish lists, or he had some major delivery fuck-ups, because I got a Buzz Lightyear action figure, a scarf, and a knock-off Swiss Army knife for those years respectively.
After I get that out of him, I will continue to negotiate with this blubber, and somehow convince him to share his fortune with me. I will force my girlfriend to learn the eggnog recipe that his wife uses to keep his ass going for 24 hours. I have been led to believe that this will dramatically improve our sex life.
I will get his elves (or however the hell this pedophile gets his toys made) to run an assembly line from my garage, packaging Ziplock bags full of cocaine into a variety of adult toys. I will then proceed to donate these toys to charities, local day cares, or ship them off to Mexico, so people can learn to have kinky sex with kinkier drugs. I surmise this will make the world a much better place.
Of course, if I have multiple 18-wheelers coming and leaving my house on a regular basis, the popos would probably catch on to me. Which is why I have ingeniously devised a foolproof plan for these trucks to rock Coca-Cola logos with Santa Claus as my mascot sporting different Marilyn Monroe poses, taken in my basement using my mom's digital camera. And yes, Coca-Cola may try to sue me for jacking their logo, so I have also ingeniously redesigned their logo using a capitalized "i" instead of an "l" in the word "Cola", it looks something like this:
Not bad eh?
Of course, I don't think I would be able to run this charade from the comfort of my own home for much too long. I plan to rebuild my indoor assembly line from making sex toys to making nuclear missiles, and then declare war on the United States, using the North Pole as my central base and headquarters.
Why would I want to do all that, you ask? Beats the living shit out of me.
-vH
