Blood For Santa: Day 2

I have returned to you from the frozen reaches of Anytown, U.S.A. to continue my annual holiday celebration!

This also officially marks my 200th post on this gorgeous blog, which is quite the milestone for me. 200 posts. Where did all the time go? I know where it went: I pissed it all away on this fucking blog. Not that I'm bitter, mind you. If I didn't piss it away here, I would have just pissed it away somewhere else. Perhaps in a burned-out drug den.

That's right, this blog has kept me from succumbing to the seductive temptations of illegal narcotics. Instead of chasing the dragon, I'm screaming into the endless void that is INTERNET. I'll leave it to you to decide whether I've made the right choice.

I've had a good time maintaining this blog, striving to entertain you, my Dear Imaginary Reader, and I do so hope you've enjoyed not reading it just as much.

Now let's talk about Christmas, shall we?

I actually do have something to say about the holiday this time, believe it or not. It's about gifts. The gifts that truly matter, my friends. No, not that awesome The Real Ghostbusters firehouse playset I received one magical December in my youth.

Although I'd be lying if I said I thought something would eventually top that magnificent gift. You see, this year I received a gift that I will cherish for the rest of my life. Indulge me while I queue up the triumphant soundtrack to Giuseppe Tornatore's masterpiece Cinema Paradiso and get real with you.

Growing up, I always had my older brother Matt to look out for me. If I ever got into trouble, he would be there to bail me out. Not literally, mind you. I've actually never been arrested, but if I were, he would undoubtedly be there to post my bail.

I don't want to sugarcoat things and tell you that we have a perfect relationship. Like any siblings, there have been plenty of occasions when we've hated each other with a burning passion powerful enough to fuel the U.S.S. Enterprise for the duration of its original 5-year mission. During my early teenage years, he routinely made my life miserable seemingly for his own amusement, and I despised him for that. That's just the name of the game.

Then one glorious day, my brother discovered marijuana and chilled the fuck out. He no longer called me "fat shit", and actually began to treat me like a real human being for a change. This was a refreshing change of pace. We started hanging out, shooting the breeze, and I felt better about myself.

I always enjoy spending time with my brother. Through good times and bad, I've always been able to count on him, and I like to think he's always been able to count on me. I'm a very difficult person to like. I always have been. The fact that he's been able to deal with my weird, misanthropic nature with relative ease certainly speaks volumes. My brother means the world to me, and it's sometimes difficult for me to say that. But he knows how I feel, and I'm glad to share this sentiment with you.

This leads me to the real point of my story. My mother briefly considered having a third child after I was born, because she always wanted a daughter and was still young enough to try again. But after she realized she had given birth to the fucking Antichrist and my behavior drove her to the brink of madness, she decided against the idea and elected to receive a hysterectomy, ensuring a third child would never pass through her surely cursed loins.

I don't blame her. I was only a baby and have no memory of this, but according to my mother I may have been the worst infant in the history of the world, just nothing but a bundle of screaming and misery for two solid years. So she made the right choice. But that daughter never came along. I never got a sister.

Everyone in my family knows that I will never marry, and I will never reproduce. That's just not in the cards for me. So my mother's only hope for a daughter-in-law rested on the broad, meaty shoulders of my stout brother. After a nasty break-up a few years ago, my brother seemed ready to jump into another shaky relationship without giving it much thought, and I warned him against this. I told him to take a step back and spend a little time alone, thinking this would be the best thing for him.

If he had followed my advice, he would have made the biggest mistake of his life. I truly regret ever having said that, because the woman he found was the best thing that ever happened to him. She's kind, generous, funny, and patient. And for some inexplicable reason, she actually seems to like me. I know, I'm just as shocked as you are.

I mentioned in an earlier post that my brother was due to be married, and that he had chosen me as his best man. The fact that he, a man with a wide circle of close friends, chose his loser kid brother to be his best man, touched me deeply. It was a great honor, and I was proud to stand at his side and watch him marry the love of his life.

I never gave the obligatory "best man speech" at the wedding reception, due in part to my crippling fear of public speaking, and I feel like I let him down. But I'm trying to make up for that now. He's my brother, and he's the coolest guy in the world. And he also happened to marry the coolest girl in the world.

She's only officially been my sister-in-law for about two months, but I feel like I've known Amanda my entire life. She doesn't just tolerate me for her husband's sake. She actually seems to like spending time with me.

On my birthday, she broke out my brother's whiskey and watched me get drunk and act like a lunatic in their backyard. I don't remember much of anything after the bottle of Jack Daniel's showed up, but I apparently spent a solid hour trying and failing to jump on a trampoline in the dead of night, laughing like a maniac. She tells me it was hilarious, but all I remember is the hangover, so I'll have to take her word for it.

Yesterday, she took time out of her busy day and helped me find the perfect Christmas gift for my long-suffering mother. She didn't have to do this, but she did it anyway. Because the woman is a fucking saint.

She's great, and I love her to death. And if anyone ever fucks with her, my brother and I will team up like the Avengers to destroy whoever is responsible and bury them in a shallow grave on the flint hills. Because we're a family, and that's how we roll.

This is my brother.

This is my sister.

They are the greatest gifts I will ever receive. And you know what? Fuck Linus and his religious screed about the birth of Jesus. This is the true meaning of Christmas, Charlie Brown.

And now for something completely different. The sixteenth installment of Lies My Podcast Told Me has arrived on this, the second day of the bloodening. Entitled Swedish Sanborg, this episode deals primarily with nonsense and perversion. It also deals with Bon Jovi guitarist Richie Sambora.

More specifically, the fact that neither myself nor my cousin Ky can seem to remember the man's name. It's hilarious. Hear the words:

Chapter 16: Swedish Sanborg



I'll be back tomorrow for the third part of this charade.