Last night we lit up all our Christmas lights, turned off all the rest of the house lights, poured ourself drinks and sat down to watch Bad Santa. Sonja went for a B3 merlot; I poured Black Label into a frosty glass. Sonja asked me, "Why are you drinking welfare beer tonight?" I told her,"Black Label is a true Chistmas beer: it's cheap and it tastes like there just may be a little reindeer piss in it."
Sonja, like most British Columbians, thinks she is a wine expert. When we were
in our formative drinking years there was not a single Canadian wine worth serving anybody with more taste than the fuckers who send me pictures of Britney Spears well tongued beaver in my e-mail. Now the vintners of B.C. are raved about all over the world. I had a sip of the B3. In it I tasted hints of a pull out from Afghanistan and an aftertaste of murder and wasted billions.
Bad Santa is the best Christmas movie ever made. It is funny, profane and beautifully acted. And the underlying Christmas message, that even shitfaced people just might have a heart of gold like Santa's near their burned out stomach and puffy liver, brought tears of joy to my bloodshot eyes.
Sonja snuggled close to me on the couch as the final credits rolled and asked, "Do you remember when you were just like Billy Bob Thornton?"
I do remember and I have no regrets. Somebody has to be fucked up in this world, especially at Christmas. I am still not too bad at it.