Elvis Presley’s 35th Christmas

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On December 21, 1970, the meeting of paranoid minds talk about Watergate. To clarify, Elvis was greatly impressed by the presidential toilet.

If Elvis Aron Presley was anything, he was “regular” and this Christmas was no different. In fact, he was so regular this morning; he had already flushed twice. The bathroom fan was industrial as all get out, and it was doing its job loudly and proficiently. Instead of the stench of poop and urine, it was replaced by myrrh and frankincense. Elvis moaned as a turd snaked out of his orifice obscured by pearly white porcelain. There was a plop, water splashed on his unbeknownst to him, growing white ass cheeks. No one in his posse dared to tell ‘E’ that he was gaining weight. For good measure, Elvis flushed again. He laughed out loud thinking about his honor bound duty.

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Groundhog Day Is My Christmas Jam, Yo

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My favorite ornament, and it has nothing to do with the similarity to my grandpuhpah. I hate the way Americans disrespect their elders with their ugly pronunciations.

It is not an accident that I arrived in Pennsylvania, America for the very first time on February 2nd, 1984. It would be the last official year that America was still the land of opportunity, and not this competitive reality show of point and blame the newest immigrant. It was methodically purposeful that it was Groundhog’s Day.

I shit you not, I am a native of Carmexico, yes, the country that supplies the world with ironic lip balm, and the people who resemble human-sized groundhogs. I had to see for myself that there was actually an American holiday dedicated to the animal-sized version of my people.

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A Working Christmas

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This is not me. It is Robert Young from 1957. Our resemblance to each other is eerie.

My name is Carl Young, not to be confused by the realtor extraordinaire from the southwest suburbs with the same name. No worries, it happens all the time. In college, one weirdo asked if I was related to some famous psychiatrist. I walked on. If anything, a lot of people seem to think I look like a young Robert Young. It leads me to wonder, will I look like the old Robert Young as I get older?

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A Very Nazi Christmas

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“In hindsight, I could have had more empathy. History tends to be kinder to those.”

War is hell. Christmas in Nazi Germany, 1941 was proof of that. Ask Dean Von Gundermann. He was twenty-five years old, and a good twenty-five years ahead of his time. He was a misplaced flower child stuck in an oppressive Hitler regime. He would have certainly flourished following around the Grateful Dead on the west coast of America. He would have looked absolutely adorable with long flowing ebony hair, wearing a dashiki or Nehru jacket. Perhaps this would be an appropriate time to start anew as I take a very cold shower.

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