XXXmas

 
I am a cadaverous catastrophe of a girl,
with no credential other than a pulse and a willingness to shuck and jive,
reel 'em in and spit 'em back out,
a lady with a degree in gossip and doubletalk.

Yes, I am what is vulgarly referred to as a seasonal employee.

Look, you need this shit here.
These gadgets piled to the rafters are not just amusements--
they are the natural exclamation point to your whisper of a life,
a lavish, lopsided, overpriced carnival of crapola 
designed to wake you the fuck up
and make your spouse and brats think you're some kind of hot shit like they used to do.

Here, check out this asshole of a doll.
She has natural blonde hair down to her little plastic shoes,
and she is in a veritable frenzy of eagerness to be your BFF and bestie.
She talks all sorts of irrational bipolar bullshit,
and possesses an internal system of hydraulics which enable her to binge and purge like a teenage actress.

Every useless-ass oddity you can imagine, we've got it right here.
We take out full page ads in the Sunday paper, on line 
and on a glossy fold-out in the middle of your bible;
we crow about it from billboards and it's written on my hat as well.
We have a full staff of madmen locked up in the cellar, coming up with copy.
Buy this shit! Now! Oh man, I love Christmas.

Aw, Pookie, I can see that you're overwhelmed.
Come over here, let me cram you in a cubby and spout soothing silliness.
I'll spritz you with calming scents--
let's get your chi as smooth as my counter top.
That gibbering lunacy coming out of your pie hole is solid gold, babe;
best sellers and Oprah book club selections have been built on less.
Let me write it all down with devilish dedication!
I'm prepared to really earn my nine bucks an hour,
and when this is over I can go back to scribbling goth poetry in the coffee shop.

As for you,
you can remember my help forever
and mate feverishly with all this junk you bought!
________

a short tour of the seasonal asylum for Get Listed at Real Toads. I used all 23 words; only three were burned out from last year!

The Postal Parade

It is Christmas morning, and postal carriers pour out of the doors of the main post office

Like pellets from a torn bean bag.



Some weep without shame.

Some laugh.

Some slap their knee with one hand and wipe their eyes with the other.

Christmas delivery season is over.



One carrier turns slowly in a circle, arms outstretched,

Grinning as if all the world had suddenly become chocolate-frosted.

Two mail ladies dance together on the sidewalk, to wonderful unheard music.



A carrier named Gary strips off his blue jacket and flings it away;

Soon his tie joins it, discarded on the snow-dusted ground.

Another places his mail bag upside-down over his head like a drunkard,

And pantomimes blindness as his friends hoot good-naturedly.



A civilian in a black overcoat approaches the group, holding out a letter.

This sends the entire blue bunch into hysterics.

One mocks, "Cad I bail a ledder?", and they all fall over, howling with glee.



A window opens on the second floor of the post office,

And several empty trays and buckets are flung out;

Then a rather shapely ass appears in the window and waggles.

On each side, in red lipstick, is written

KISS

THIS!!!

Cheering and wolf whistles fill the chilly air.



A group of strong young carriers push a mail truck onto the lawn,

Knocking over an idealized stand-up of some soulless company shill hawking products.

When the truck stops rolling, one of them opens the back gate and pulls out an old forgotten Redbook magazine.

He rolls it up and peers through it like a pirate through a spy glass,

Until a little blonde co-worker takes it and uses it like a majorette's baton,

And they all parade away down the avenue.



It is the Christmas postal parade.

Hooray! Hooray!

They will go home and reintroduce themselves to their husbands and wives;

They will hoist up their children in their arms,

Ruffle their hair,

And spout love words you can see in the winter air.

Behold the Christmas miracle!

Ease and happiness--

Gifts falling into their lives like letters from the angels into a collection box.

_______

And now a word from our sponsor...

"Consume, or the peace freak gets it."

--Santa