Dusk was short; it was officially Christmas evening. He was late again today. In his book, that made him a re-tardy. Rest assured, this story occurred in less sensitive times, 1968; also, Christmas Cop is a dirty moist asswipe. If 1967 was the summer of love, 1968 was the year of regret and reconciliation. All this aside, Christmas Cop was late for a very special Christmas dinner.
Christmas jumped into his car, illegally parked in front of a fire hydrant. He put on his aviator shades, and sped off, sirens a-blaring, lights a-flashing. If white or yellow was green, there would have been a semblance of twinkling Christmas lights on crack. [FACT CHECK: Crack would not be invented for another twenty years.]
Meanwhile, Christmas dinners across America went cold. Less eating, more discussing. Between the Viet Nam, RFK, the guy, not the airport, and MLK, the man, not the boulevard, America was truly unraveling. The aging seams of the comeuppance nation were visibly fraying. In short, America was not all that, and perhaps never was all that.
How inane is democracy when it is reduced to a true/false question? Where were the multiple choices? For God’s sake, where was the essay question? Democracy should not be this simple. At this rate, an unqualified blowhard who claims to be something when he is absolutely nothing can be president of this country. Only time can truly tell, but democracy is not all that it’s cracked up to be. #WakeUpAmerica [FACT CHECK: Twitter® and the hashtag™ were not invented until 2006.]
Christmas Cop arrived at the Sullivan residence at precisely 8:02 P.M. He was exactly three hours late. He RSVP’ed for 5:02. It was a little trick to make him more punctual. By choosing a precise time, there would be no way he could forget, and by showing up at 5:20, you were still alright. Sadly, it worked once out of 50 attempts. He needed a new fix for this malady. It should be noted, it doesn’t matter who you are; tardiness is rude. It is disrespectful. The only act more selfish is suicide. By the by, a lot of people don’t know when to shut the fuck up.
The Sullivan house was very modest for the wealth they had accumulated. For nearly a century, the Sullivan family were responsible for 70% of the tombstones in America. Their motto was to the point: People are dying for one of our tombstones. Sullivan, not related to the bad stereotypes of the Irish.
Before he could knock, the door opened. It was little Andrew Sullivan. He was a 28-year old midget dwarf. Again, 1968 had a different definition for sensitivity.
Christmas leaned forward as if placating a toddler, “Merry Christmas, Andrew.”
“Can it, clown. You broke my mother’s heart for the last time. Thanks to your lunkiness, she’s in the hospital. Merry Christmas.”
Christmas Cop peeked in and was confronted by 18 and a half glaring eyes from the dining room table. A Christmas feast beautifully displayed was pristine, untouched. Six-eyed Johnny Sullivan, who wore a patch over his upper left eye said, “Go home. You are officially revoked. Merry Christmas.”
Before Christmas could respond, little Andrew slammed the door. The wreath jiggled and fell to the ground.
On top of being impersonal, immature, immolated and impossible, Christmas was a spiteful son of a jagoff. He was lucky to be born at all, considering how his father’s total amount of wasted sperm was somewhere in the gallons and tons. Christmas wore a wry smile as he gallivanted back to the car, leaving behind a citation for littering.