Loaded At Christmas

Christmas. Fuck. Here it comes again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. If I live to enjoy a slow, inglorious death I will die thinking I could have lived several more years if I did not get so loaded at Christmas.

It all started innocently enough during the evening of my first Christmas. Beer Sr. said to my mom, between glugs of his Black Label, "Give the little fucker some brandy. Maybe it will put the little fucker to sleep. Then maybe we can do the hooky-wooky!" The brandy worked and nine months later I had a baby brother to share my brandy with.

Once I had got the hang of sleeping when my folks needed some hooky-wooky time the supply of booze dried up like good ideas at a political convention. The Hockey family were a conservative lot and children in conservative families do not get served booze so it was not until my eighth Christmas that Beer Sr. said, "Give the little fucker some wine. Maybe the little motherfucker will sing and dance for us after dinner."

My mom uncorked another bottle of my dad's blackberry wine and poured me a big glass. I poured it back just like all the old folks did. The old bastards all looked impressed. I could glug with the best of the Hockeys. My mom asked me, "That's better than milk isn't it Beer?" I nodded so she poured me another tumbler. It was not long until I was in the back yard puking a purple flame in the snow.

"It's a puker!"

"Look at the little motherfucker heave!"

"Get it all out Beer! That way you won't be hungover on Boxing Day."

"Puker!"

At Christmas time when I was 19, old enough to do your own shopping in the liquor store, I came home with cases of wine. I drank so much of it one morning I caught a glimpse of the inside of my lower lip in the mirror. It was stained blood red. Us Hockeys do not fuck around with white wine, that shit is for squareheads.

One Christmas I must have drank too much wine because now I mostly drink beer. But this Christmas, since I am celebrating the Hoax of Jesus in the safety of my own home, I think I will buy a couple cases of good Canadian wine. We Canadians are making wine almost as good as the dope we share with the world. We can even make a blackberry wine that will not make an eight year old vomit.

Sonja saw I already have my VCR collection of Anne Murray Christmas Specials by the tv. "You are in the Christmas spirit early this year, aren't you Beer?" she asked as she set another beer down on my desk.

"I send her an invitation every year we have Christmas dinner Sonja. She does not have that many fans left. I may be the last fucking one. Maybe this will be the year Anne Murray stops by and watches Bad Santa, drinks a couple bottles of wine and sings First Christmas (Away From Home) with me."