For a while it looked like no one was going to make it to my place for Christmas. Canadians do not get around in the snow as good as we did before the invention of cars and motorcycles. I talked to everybody on the phone Christmas morning. They all sounded like they had witnessed a mile wide rogue asteroid's crash into the Earth.
Hunky Z and Kitty were sitting in front of their fire drinking tequila when I phoned them. "I don't know Beer. Maybe after a couple more shots I'll have the courage to drive out there. We'll call you back in an hour."
Sister Sal was sleeping when I phoned her. "All I do is shovel snow! I never thought about how fucking long the driveway was when I bought the place." If Frosty the Snowman would have passed by her place she would have kicked him in his fat white ass.
Mom and Reggie weren't answering their phone. They were being entertained by curling friends. I ought to curl. Curlers use the words entertain and booze-up interchangeably.
I did not even bother to phone my aunt and uncle who live on the far side of the winter disaster that is Metro Dope City. The side street they live on had three feet of snow on it and would only ever be plowed if the mayor or the chief of police moved onto it.
But the snow stopped and when I told everybody a plow, the Miracle Christmas Plow, had just cleared my street they hopped in their cars and swerved over. Everyone had also been monitoring the traffic cameras the fucking government has placed all over the province. The roads were looking surprisingly good except for the overturned vehicles clearly visible in the hungry white ditches.
The Christmas party went ahead as planned. I had taken all the bottles from the bar and planted them in a snowbank in the back of the house. At first my guests complained about the temperature of the bar but pretty soon they were giggling like girls as they made snow angels and later painted cranberry flames of vomit by the bar. Nothing says Christmas like red vomit in the snow.
6 comments:
Wish you have had a beerful Christmas
Wow, that's as touching as the story of my Cousin Sandy's wedding.
Sandy from Michigan?
Sandy from Indiana. She was managing a Pizza Hut in Indianapolis. Got really drunk after work and ended up in bed with a guy who was working as a bus boy. Shortly afterwards she discovered that she was pregnant. The bus boy, Russell, agreed to marry her. Family tried to put a brave face on things but everyone knew what was up. The wedding turned into a gigantic booze up. The high point for me was when the Maid of Honor disappeared. She was found, face down, in a mud puddle, unconscious and very nearly drowned in two inches of muddy water. Sandy got drunk enough that she forgot what the party was for and almost took some guy from the groom's side off to bed with her. Uncle Jimmy and I never liked each other. We almost came to blows. I was on one of my periodic dry spells, not to be confused with sobriety. He took that to be a statement on my part that I was too good to drink with him. He stopped everything and announced that he was going to kick my ass. This was a continuation of a fight that had been going on since I was 15, when he decided that my hair was too long and he was going to kick my ass. He never got around to kicking my ass. He would just swagger around and loudly announce his intention to kick my ass. I took a beer, ended up really fucked up. Sandy was crying, "Oh God! I'll never be able to bring home anymore hot men!" Periodically, Uncle Jim would come over and tell me I was an asshole. There were a couple of fist fights, I forget why. It was a special day that most of us will never forget, if we can remember any of it.
Jesus Christ Jon, your family is just like Sarah Palin's.
Real Americans. Every one of us. Except the branch on my father's side who are real Newfies.
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