Due to the frequency of Christmas Eve disasters in the past my Hockey family does not drink much that day. We prefer to warm up to our task ahead on Christmas Eve, practicing our belching, stretching our vomit muscles, searching for and preparing new brain tissue to destroy.
One of Sonja's Christmas Eve shopping stops yesterday was the liquor store. "I was in the scotch aisle, picking you up a bottle, when a man asked a clerk standing by me what a good scotch is. The clerk didn't know shit about scotch (he was keeping an eye on a Hindoo looking to steal several bottles of Johnny black) so I asked the guy if he was looking for a high end bottle. He was. I told him few, if any, scotch drinkers would be disappointed with a bottle of Macallan's twelve year. He picked up a bottle of it without a second thought. $85!"
"Good thing you know your whiskies," I said to Sonja. "You made somebody's Christmas extra special. What kind of scotch did you buy me?"
"You'll have to wait until tomorrow you scotch pig," she told me. "but it wasn't Macallan's."
In the evening we tried to watch a couple classic Christmas movies. If not making it the whole way through black and white Christmas movies because they are boring as fuck is supposed to put a man in the spirit of things I could not be more in the Christmas swing of things than I am now.
Merry Christmas, motherfuckers.
2 comments:
Well. At least your tv apparently works. God damn off the shelf digital ariel boosters; the only thing worse than watching "Elf" or "A Muppet Christmas Carol" is sitting through them as they stutter and screech to a pixelated halt.
Bring back the analogue snow of old.
Merry Christmas, even though I'm unpardonably late.
Unpardonably ? Unseasonally, maybe.
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