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Published December 23, 2009
    I am going to start this on a bit of a semi-related side note. "Starting with a side note; is he crazy," you ask yourself? What can I say? I am a wild son-of-a-bitch. That doesn't give anyone the green light to freely call my mother a "bitch," by the way. Only I can do that, because I've been inside of her. What?

    I am writing this shortly after having wrapped all of the Christmas presents I bought for people this year. What I find funny about said wrapping -- in addition to the fact that I was l listening to Dr. Dre and Snoop's "Deep Cover" while wrapping the present that I bought for my four year old cousin -- is the fact that I wrap like a fucking asshole. I, for whatever reason, simply cannot do it. Seriously, they just look gross when I am done with them. People who have Ectrodactyly (sometimes referred to as "Lobster Claw Syndrome; seen here) would look at my wrapping job and say, "Who is the sad bastard responsible for this? If a just God exists, he will strike him dead to put him out of his misery. I'd rather have been born with a 'normal' and functioning appendage and then have it slowly carved into what you see before you now than spend even one minute as this fucktard."

    They would also say all of that knowing full-well that I was right in front of them, and they would then dip their hand in tartar sauce, just to both really rub it in and to equally confuse me. If they really wanted to be dicks about it, they would follow that by licking the sauce off of their claw-hand, thereby making me vomit.

    Take, for instance, the previously mentioned gift for my four year old cousin. Apparently, she is into arts and crafts, or so I am told. When I asked my aunt for ideas, she emailed me a few links to look at. While I am slightly worried that she may have purposefully shown me things that her daughter wouldn't like in an act of sabotage (because I am also told that last year's purchase of the Shrek trilogy was her favorite present, and my aunt may want to reclaim the number one spot), in the end I listened to her recommendations.

    What I decided on was this:



    Personally, I don't know if I would describe it as "giant," but it's an otherwise appropriate name for the product. It's a pretty good gift for a young lady who enjoys creating art, right? I imagined her unwrapping it, seeing it, getting a huge smile on her face, and immediately asking her mother for paper. She would play with it the rest of the day and maybe even draw me a picture depicting the day's events and her happiness pertaining to it. In other words, I would have just given her the perfect Christmas gift, two years in a row.

    Well, as I mentioned, I wrap like a fucking asshole, and somehow the above ended up turning into this:





    I sincerely doubt that those pictures accurately portray the dearth that is the job I did (I took more, but I will spare you), but trust me, it's disgusting. I was basically just cutting scraps and taping them together, like I was creating a collage of all of my cousin's dreams that would be crushed upon seeing it. I used probably 57 pieces of tape on that masterpiece alone.

    I wasn't even planning on wrapping anyone's presents this year, and then I decided that I should at least wrap hers. When I (mistakenly) told my mother my plan, she all but insinuated that I would ruin Christmas if I didn't wrap everyone's. I'd say that was still the end result, regardless. Seriously, it's enough to make Jesus wish he had never been born.

    I take back what I said about sparing you. I want to show you one more picture that I am particularly proud of:



    That is my uncle's present, and the other side of it is partially uncovered, as well. I didn't realize that they were exposed until I already thought I was finished. At that point, I decided he was a grown-ass man and just left it. By the way, if you happen to be reading this, you got a set of dishes -- not my idea. I wanted to get you either The Hangover or Steel Panther's album, Feel the Steel, but I was told you specifically said you wanted this. So, if you don't like it, blame your sisters.

    And so ends the introductory side note. On to the main attraction.

    The holiday season is always a stressful time of year for me. When I say, "stressful time of year," I mean that it's semi-worrisome for the upwards of four cumulative hours I spend gift shopping, and then the rest of the time is spent "debriefing" in an alcoholic stupor.

    Everyone says that it's "the thought that counts," and it is -- to a point. When I receive something that I don't exactly like, I am very appreciative that someone spent the money and time to get me something. I then think to myself, what in the fuck about me says, "Hey, I'd like to go out in public wearing a beanie that has an alien head on it?" Do people really think that I'm that guy? At least now I know how I'm going to use the Swiss Army knife. I wonder if it has a specific wrist-cutting tool, or if any of them will do. Sorry, You-Know-Who. No offense meant, and I still do appreciate the thought.

    In all fairness, the Swiss Army knife has come in handy for opening packages containing things that I have ordered that I will actually like. So, thanks again.

    As you can probably now imagine, the "stress" of the season for me stems from trying to think of presents that everyone will thoroughly enjoy. Some people are pretty easy to buy for, whereas others are pretty difficult. Ironically, others probably think that I fall into the latter category.

    When I am not quite sure what to get someone, I always get a second opinion from my mother. I know it seems as though I have all of the answers, but in reality, I only have almost all of the answers. Anything I do not know, she does, so it all works out in the end.

    Nine times out of ten, I will listen to her advice -- even if it's to buy someone a set of dinnerware that are ironically the same color the food that they eat off of them will be when it comes back out (hint: The plates are brown, and so is the vast majority of shit). I aim to please, so even if I feel a little odd buying the present, I will. Much like how I got my sister the Thunder Cloud vibrator. Just kidding, that didn't happen. Or, did it? I guess we'll find out on the 25th, won't we?

    I always feel better as soon as all of the gifts are purchased, because I trust my final judgment, so I know everyone will be happy. Obviously, everything has been bought and wrapped this year, but I'm still feeling a lot of stress from a very unusual source.

    I'd like to preface this with telling you that I do not approve of people running to lawyers about every little thing that happens to them, in hopes of finding themselves a big payday. I think it is a horrendous exploitation of our judicial system. I once spilled an entire cup of piping-hot McDonald's coffee in my lap, burning my penis to point that it started stalking and killing people in their dreams. Did I sue? No. I came, because I derive pleasure from pain. I came right then and there, in my pants, and I didn't even go home to change. Instead, I went back up to the counter and once again thanked the cashier for the delicious refreshment and the orgasm.

    Alright, that's kind of lie. I've never burned my penis with McDonald's coffee. If I did, I would cry like my cousin probably will when she sees her gift, because I don't derive pleasure from pain, either. I actually very rarely even drink coffee -- maybe once or twice a year. However, I once ordered Chicken McNuggets and when I got them they were less than hot. I still ate them. My point is that I didn't sue.

    That being said, a couple of years ago, after some urging from friends, I decided that I was going to attempt to write a book. I'm a pretty simple man, and though I didn't know exactly what I wanted the story to be about, I knew I wanted it to be a representation of the values and morals I think are important. I won't bore you with all of the developmental details, but the end result was my debut novel, A Dog Named Bitch Tits.

    A short synopsis of the story would read as follows: Tim McVay (not that one -- take note of the spelling) is a slightly mentally challenged young man who lives with his parents on an Oklahoma farm. One day, he and his father take a trip into town and run into a family friend. Tim overhears his father's comment to his friend, about woman who had just walked by -- "Did you see that bitch's tits?" Tim's "condition" causes him to oftentimes repeat things he has heard over and over again, and thus, he begins saying, "bitch tits" multiple times.

    Tim has also wanted a dog for as long as he can remember. He has asked multiple times, but his father always told him that he was not allowed to have one. After that afternoon's events, his father changes his mind. He tells Tim that he could have a dog, and they will even pick it up on the way home, as long as he promises to stop saying, "bitch tits."

    Tim agrees, and on the way home, they stop at the local pound. Tim eventually picks out a Beagle -- who had just given birth to a litter of puppies -- after it rolled over, exposing its nipples. "Look, Dad! bitch tits!" Tim knows it was meant to be.

    Tim loves his new dog, and wants nothing more than to name her "Bitch Tits," to which his father says no. Later in the story, the owner of the pound contacts the family and asks if they'd like any other dogs -- the litter of puppies needs a home, too. When they decline, he asks if they know of anyone else who'd be interested, and Tim begins his mission of finding a home for each of the puppies -- in the process, finding himself, and teaching everyone in the town a lesson about life.

    Pretty deep stuff, I know. It'd be dishonest of me to say I wasn't happy with the final product. The few people I showed it to asked why I was wasting time by not submitting it to every publisher I could think of. I wanted to, but I was nervous about what others would think of it. In the end, I submitted it to The Evangelical Christian Publishers Association (ECPA), figuring that they would share some of my morals. They passed on the idea. I was crushed, and I never tried submitting it anyone else.

    Then, a week or two ago, a Hallmark made-for-TV movie caught my attention. After seeing part of it, I rushed to my computer and started doing a little research. I came to find that it was based on a novel of the same name, A Dog Named Christmas. Sounds a little familiar, doesn't it? Well, it doesn't end there. Check out the synopsis of that novel, straight from its website.
   
    Needless to say, I currently find myself in litigation against multiple parties for plagiarism. I am not looking for my "big payday" this holiday. No, I simply to be happy and healthy, and I want the same for those I care about. I want everyone's upcoming year to be better than their last. I want everyone to be able to achieve something that they've always dreamed of. I also would like the tens of millions I would have made from my novel, had it not been stolen from me. Bitch Tits would be nice, too. I don't mean my novel being published, a dog named that, nor do I wish to grow any for myself. I mean a woman's breasts -- preferably in my face.

    To all of my "friends" (and I use that term loosely -- I kid) here, I wish all of the above to you -- minus the burned crotches and court proceedings.

    Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to you and yours.
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