My Christmas fuse blows out pre-November, anticipating the mighty symphony of crashing funds and validated parking. WHAM!!! It hits me in the ever-lovin' balls like a stocking full of shit. I'm not a holiday person and I hoark up a little Christmas cheer when I see those elves dry-humping a red and white symbol of our nation's staggering obesity problem.... but I take it in stride.

Like most young gentiles, Christmas used to be my favorite day. On Christmas eve, I'd rip things from walls, brandishing my genitalia and foaming at the mouth in frightening fits of dementia. I never got anything great, but by that time my Halloween acquisitions were nearly kicked and I was hopped up on enough yellow #5 to choke a camel. Those big Egyptian ones. With the extra humps and eye patches.

Since those hopeful days, my enthusiasm has tapered off. Or broken off.... shooting splinters into my eyes and mouth. Merry Mother Fucking, Cocksucking Christmas.

I'm a big fan of my remaining grandparents, but the rest of them can go to hell. My uncle "Milky" (name changed to protect the.... well not innocent) is an army guy who makes a lot of money doing nothing. He has two demon children and a wife named "Jo" whom everyone hates. My uncle "Squiggy" is an unemployed alcoholic. Everyone hates him. My aunt "Jiggles" has filed for every conceivable handout and currently lives with 2 suspected prostitutes after moving from her mom's house at the tender age of 43. It would be fair to say that she is well-hated. Uncle Squiggy once offered to gut my dad with a buck knife when he failed to grasp the difference between paint thinner and lacquer thinner. A round of applause for this year's dysfunctional Christmas ensemble.

It's exciting. It's uncomfortable. Christmas 2003 brought (brang?) new memories which I shall forever hold at arms length. One in particular.

Aunt Jo, who's never been more than a trifle insecure, plunged her pointy head into the deep fried heart of hillbilly beatitude by marrying my uncle Milky. She came into the kitchen for a smoke, where I was pretending to look out the window, motionless and alert. We got past the obligatory howdy-dos and she asked me about my future. I told her I'm going to be a rock star and live in New York City. She thought about it for a second and then replied, "Well let's see....... I'm trying to think of where all the homosexuals live in New York City."

Me: " I'm not gay, Jo!"

Uncle Squiggy: "Who's gay?"

Me: "NOBODY IS GAY."

Grandpa: "Who is?"

That's a dramatization and maybe it didn't go down like that, but it's still true.

By now you've witnessed the start of a social transformation. GAYS ARE EVERYWHERE. Straight people march for gay rights. Everyone who isn't married is gay. People are suspicious. Every sitcom has a gay character. There's gays all over, having buttsex in your face. Even the pope is unbuckling his gown.

We're getting stampeded by gay culture, and if things keep up like this, every American will either be gay, or pretend to be gay within 5 years. Kids too. Wiggers will be a thing of the past. Sagging pants and oversized basketball jerseys will be exchanged for cut-off jeans and ruffled blouses. Street gangs will slap instead of shoot. They'll still rob banks, but they'll make their own velour bags to carry the cash in, and scoff at frowsy window treatments while exiting. Everyone will pretend to be gay in the future because gay gay gay gay gay.... GAY IS EVERYWHERE. There's nothing you can do about it. Metrosexuals are the first incarnation of faux-mos.

See?

Anyway... My aunt Jo thinks I'm gay. Jesus.... She has a BOY'S name. I should've explained that girls give me boners. Big boners. Even women in Lenscrafters commercials sometimes give me big, huge boners. I should've told her what I did to those catholic girls in the Eat 'n' Park restroom. I should've told her what they ate and where they parked. I could've set her straight, but what's the point? It doesn't bother me anymore. I plan to be on that second wave of faux-mos, and we'll ride that bitch like an elf on ol' Saint Nick.