The Best Christmas Story Ever!

The Laird is a Highland Warrior, skilled in the use of war-making tools such as the cock and balls. The Laird is also a Pagan, and as such, was unprepared for the demands of the tools of the average Anglo-Saxon Protestant Christmas. Namely, the box-cutter.

Thanks to his noble sacrifice of dignity and flesh, Ha'pint and I had the Best. Christmas. Ever.

Me: I really should read my text messages more at night... Did you suck all the way to the completion of the treasure hunt or did Rooster** "find" her prize under your unconcious body in the front lawn this morning?

Ha'pint: Worse. I'm wearing a red flannel nightgown with sock monkeys all over it from my mommy dearest with red hiking socks and a Christmas apron. Sipping Amaretto and coffee. All I wanted for Christmas was a gift card for a tattoo from them....... The treasure hunt is postponed for New Years Eve. The Lairds's finger! Aaaagh!!!!! Amazingly awesome!!!

Me: Have you looked at the "full view?" Epic. Does Rooster know the treasure hunt is post-poned? ;) That would be awesome.... just keep feeding her lies for a week.

Ha'pint: She knows its postponed. I wasn't clever enough to keep stringing her along. That would have been nice..... I saw two pics front and palm side. Were there more? I want to print and frame it. So you made it to your folks what with no snow and all? Anything awesome happen yet?

Me: I was supposed to go to my folks tomorrow. No driving there yet... I'm in Lowlyville. Celebrated with Phineas T. Groundhog's parents, which was great. What's your highlight reel? I saw the pic with the chunky towell and a pic of it bandaged. Epic.

Ha'pint: I got both where it looks like he's in the ER with blue surgical cloth on the table he's holding it over. The palm view is bloody with some iodine. Well probably good you stayed, its a crazy blizzard outside. Not much other than the outfit I wore and playing Pictionary drunk and having my dad wrote "Cow dick" for "udder" to my daughter.

Me: I haven't seen the e.r. bloody palm! Send! And if you don't mind, send that "stitches" pic to my email? I just accidentally erased it.

Ha'pint: Will do. Gmail or aol? Which one is the good one now?

Me: Gmail all the way. WOW. What ones did you get?

Ha'pint: It's like we are comparing Christmas presents. And personally, it WAS my best Christmas present.

Me: Close... my best has been the boots Phineas T. Groundhog's mom gave me. They are black and Victorian. And swell. I got the "stitches" pic, which i sent to you an hour ago, and the "sliced finger over chunky towel" which came in at about 12:30 last night.

Ha'pint: Man those pics rock. It looks like its coated in fetus cheese. It also looks like it just may fall off soon.

Me: I know! It looks like someone ran a lawnmower over a corpse that was covered by a flesh-colored tarp.

Ha'pint: *smiling* you give the best visuals. I'm happy now.

Me: Can you email me our text conversations for the past two days?

Ha'pint: I'm jumping in the shower and I will soon sort and send while listening to The Oakridge Boys. Gotta love Elvira. Giddy up-uh oom boppa oom boppa mouw mouw.

Me: Heigh-ho Silver! Away!

Thanks, Laird.

** Okay, so I am a kind person. I gave Ha'pint the chance to pick her daughter's moniker. Apparently, just the once was enough for her in this life. A concise sampling of Ha'pint's suggestions:
Fannie
Lucinda
Elvira (Oak Ridge Boys reference I assumed)
Cora
Ramona
Lowly (Richard Scarry? Deep emotional scars??)
Orly (Fuck I don't know)
Jolene (Jolene?)
Dottie
Shania
Dolly (She was on a country kick after "Jolene" I guess.)
Fern
TinaMarie
Savannah
At which point I suggested "Mackayla" and she started screaming "No! Too white and snobby!" (see above for irony) and immediately regressed back to the "soiled dove" names.
Maxine
Matilda
Daisy
Violet
Sage (She was getting hungry I think)
Cinnamon
Pepper
aaaaaand her final offering, "Pippa."

The child got "Rooster." I feel strongly that I have done a good deed this day.

The Bride is Dead

This is a dead bride. Dead dead dead.

Think about all the things that might have been.

Think about all the jokes that never got told, and all the phone conversations that will never be had.

Think about how no matter what anybody says or does, The Bride is dead.

Part of me doesn't want to see the sparkly dress get zipped up in that bag because that means that it's over, for sure.

But then, I think of how wonderfully she died, how she took her own life (no autopsy necessary!), and how much less it will hurt now that I don't have to think about her future anymore.
I don't want to know that she's in the ground, in the dark...

But the alternative is having her propped up in the living room, stinking up the place. And who needs that? Not me. I am relieved, just a little already. The wait is over. The Bride is dead. I don't ever have to think about her again.

I don't ever have to learn to touch her.

I don't ever have to save her life.

Because The Bride is dead.


11.11.11:This little bit of pedantic meandering is the result of the dissolution of my fuckship with The Bride. Since this was originally posted, she's no longer a bride and I still think she's a selfish cunt. So I guess that makes us even?