The Christmas Letters

   The Christmas Letters are coming in. These are letters written by women in the third person as though they are queens of England or aloof deities floating through the cosmos and looking down at themselves as they go about their astoundingly boring Past Year. And then they tell you about it. Like as though you give a shit about their hysterectomy. Or their cats' progress on Prozac. "Fluffycunts doesnt piss on the computer keyboard anymore like she used to since we took him to Dr. 'Mengele For Cats' in Sonoroa, Mexico. I love the mariachi music!" Nothing is connected, nothing makes much sense, it's all a borefest of almost hurricane-level ferocity "Our daughter Mildred just completed ass-wiping courses in Madrid and is now demonstrating fecal-identification to the orphan children of Borneo. We are so proud of her!!" Borneo will never be the same, yup, that's for sure, thanks to the selfless ass-dedication of your daughter who I am sure could not manage to get a fucking for herself on the Isle of Lesbos during the full moon while lying on the Altar of Vagina Delights naked and with her legs spread and surrounded by strap-on-girded Amazons, their bellies filled with Spanish fly.
   If there were only men on the earth Christmas would consist of handing a buddy a cigar and a beer and standing on the back porch in the woods and looking at the stars and thinking about Jesus and what if anything it all means and talking pleasantly about pussy and rifles and what the roads are like these days in Texas. There would be no presents and decorations and there certainly would be no fucking Christmas Letters.
   Except of course in West Hollywood and on Fire Island.
   And in the dilapidated minds and lives of actual females, not just the faggot imitations of them.