The Super Christmas Blender Story
…and the heavens propagated a media darling, Lord Jesus of Hermosa Beach, and the world would forever bow to his charms and local programming.
Ah, it was a century of fortnights ago, in the basking darkness known biblically as Santa’s Village, near Compton, where Mary and Joseph met in the steamy afterthought of a bar. Despite the distraction of Monday Night Football and free Chex Mix in a tan, plastic, imitation wicker basket lazily lined with a paper towel, Joseph managed to finagle Mary’s attention with his charm, wit, and his silver satin gown trimmed with gold garland and tiny, bright lights.
Mary, it should be noted, was infected with God’s Love. The clinic was closed; there was really nothing she could do except drink and leer at the Space Invaders game that inevitably was trying to lure her into his circuitry. I mean, she looked pretty good all sauced-up.
Joseph and Mary, after prolonged pleasantries and throat-clearing memorabilia, slithered their way back to Mary’s apartment on the East Side, where Joseph promptly fell asleep after popping two Tylenol and seducing a half-box of Cheez-Its. With gin. “Happy Days” was left spinning on the TV, which was Joseph’s favorite show, although he never liked the Potsie character. Mary thought Potsie was cute. Hence, all the resentment and arguing and eye-rolling that characterized their union, long after their straggly-haired boy grew up and went to State University and waded through two mediocre seasons as a third-string linebacker.
By the time Joseph woke, all of his belongings were moved in. Except for anything that had to do with Star Trek, because that is so queer.
So God’s Love, left unabated, filtered its way throughout Mary’s corpuscles, and in granulated form, fashioned a garden patch within the supple bars of her rib cage. Inside, the embryo (known as L’il Blobby) spun a cocoon worthy of Pottery Barn’s Spring Catalog and festered. And sputtered. With little smoke puffs that Mary would sometimes belch forward. Made for a good party joke. Ha ha! All the good times we had! Jesus H. Christ! Whew. Boy.
Joseph, seeking retribution for this God-Thing who violated his suburban dreams of two-car garages and trendy CD storage cabinets by inducing Mary to crave this God-Love mania perpetuated by biased Fox News media coverage, bought a shotgun. Although shotgun shells were banned from the house (as per Mary and her God-awful rules), it at least made him feel carbonated and manly; carrying it around the living room, waist-high, like vintage Clint Eastwood or Tupac Shakur.
Well, you know that the God-Thing won out despite his obvious firearm disadvantage, and on Christmas Day, Jesus Hobart Christ was born in Santa’s Village Memorial Hospital. Contrary to popular folklore, no gifts of gold, myrrh, or Frankenberry were presented as every store was closed, seeing it was a holiday and all. Joseph did get a high-five from Dr. Rudolph, which felt hollow and rude, since Joseph had nothing to do with the conception; in fact, he was bit miffed, as his health insurance did not cover immaculate conception or Acts of God. Section 10, paragraph 3, article 4, it’s right there, in black and white said the insurance agent over the phone, who then rubbed it in by asking how L’il Blobby was doing, the little devil.
Joseph longed for shells for his anxious shotgun; yet in the spirit of giving, he sincerely wrapped a tan, plastic, imitation wicker basket in bubble wrap for his Mary. She opened the gift enthusiastically, albeit she was distracted by a call from Potsie making cooing Space Invaders noises. Hence, Christmas Carols were invented. And eventually raves.
Mary tried her best to look joyous, despite the disappointment from the lack of Chex Mix that probably should have been included as part of the gift. But Joseph never was the romantic, instead having his fill of NASCAR and Thai prostitution.
Well, Potsie’s unrestrained flirting was the straw that broke Dracula’s back, and Joseph took one of the many stray hamsters left over from the Great Blistering Hamster Plague of the Napa Valley and loaded it into his shotgun. Firing a warning hamster over Mary’s head in an effort to draw attention to his theatrical, overzealous eye-rolling, the projectile rodent landed in Jesus’ Deluxe Babylon Playpen With Holy Ghost Protectorant®. Jesus, always the inquisitive and pompous baby, astonished his parents (well, Mary and that other guy with the shotgun who keeps hanging around; Dad-God must be off at church bingo again), by yelping his first words – “super sunday hamster blender!”
And, spiritually, the band name was born from the womb of bewilderment.
Oh, yeah, then the whole holiday became exploited and misdirected until internet shopping was invented, then it became meaningful again because you didn’t have to deal with all the bastards who just cannot fathom how to drive in a mall parking lot. Amen.
Merry (Post-) Hamstermas, for Christ’s sake.
Ah, it was a century of fortnights ago, in the basking darkness known biblically as Santa’s Village, near Compton, where Mary and Joseph met in the steamy afterthought of a bar. Despite the distraction of Monday Night Football and free Chex Mix in a tan, plastic, imitation wicker basket lazily lined with a paper towel, Joseph managed to finagle Mary’s attention with his charm, wit, and his silver satin gown trimmed with gold garland and tiny, bright lights.
Mary, it should be noted, was infected with God’s Love. The clinic was closed; there was really nothing she could do except drink and leer at the Space Invaders game that inevitably was trying to lure her into his circuitry. I mean, she looked pretty good all sauced-up.
Joseph and Mary, after prolonged pleasantries and throat-clearing memorabilia, slithered their way back to Mary’s apartment on the East Side, where Joseph promptly fell asleep after popping two Tylenol and seducing a half-box of Cheez-Its. With gin. “Happy Days” was left spinning on the TV, which was Joseph’s favorite show, although he never liked the Potsie character. Mary thought Potsie was cute. Hence, all the resentment and arguing and eye-rolling that characterized their union, long after their straggly-haired boy grew up and went to State University and waded through two mediocre seasons as a third-string linebacker.
By the time Joseph woke, all of his belongings were moved in. Except for anything that had to do with Star Trek, because that is so queer.
So God’s Love, left unabated, filtered its way throughout Mary’s corpuscles, and in granulated form, fashioned a garden patch within the supple bars of her rib cage. Inside, the embryo (known as L’il Blobby) spun a cocoon worthy of Pottery Barn’s Spring Catalog and festered. And sputtered. With little smoke puffs that Mary would sometimes belch forward. Made for a good party joke. Ha ha! All the good times we had! Jesus H. Christ! Whew. Boy.
Joseph, seeking retribution for this God-Thing who violated his suburban dreams of two-car garages and trendy CD storage cabinets by inducing Mary to crave this God-Love mania perpetuated by biased Fox News media coverage, bought a shotgun. Although shotgun shells were banned from the house (as per Mary and her God-awful rules), it at least made him feel carbonated and manly; carrying it around the living room, waist-high, like vintage Clint Eastwood or Tupac Shakur.
Well, you know that the God-Thing won out despite his obvious firearm disadvantage, and on Christmas Day, Jesus Hobart Christ was born in Santa’s Village Memorial Hospital. Contrary to popular folklore, no gifts of gold, myrrh, or Frankenberry were presented as every store was closed, seeing it was a holiday and all. Joseph did get a high-five from Dr. Rudolph, which felt hollow and rude, since Joseph had nothing to do with the conception; in fact, he was bit miffed, as his health insurance did not cover immaculate conception or Acts of God. Section 10, paragraph 3, article 4, it’s right there, in black and white said the insurance agent over the phone, who then rubbed it in by asking how L’il Blobby was doing, the little devil.
Joseph longed for shells for his anxious shotgun; yet in the spirit of giving, he sincerely wrapped a tan, plastic, imitation wicker basket in bubble wrap for his Mary. She opened the gift enthusiastically, albeit she was distracted by a call from Potsie making cooing Space Invaders noises. Hence, Christmas Carols were invented. And eventually raves.
Mary tried her best to look joyous, despite the disappointment from the lack of Chex Mix that probably should have been included as part of the gift. But Joseph never was the romantic, instead having his fill of NASCAR and Thai prostitution.
Well, Potsie’s unrestrained flirting was the straw that broke Dracula’s back, and Joseph took one of the many stray hamsters left over from the Great Blistering Hamster Plague of the Napa Valley and loaded it into his shotgun. Firing a warning hamster over Mary’s head in an effort to draw attention to his theatrical, overzealous eye-rolling, the projectile rodent landed in Jesus’ Deluxe Babylon Playpen With Holy Ghost Protectorant®. Jesus, always the inquisitive and pompous baby, astonished his parents (well, Mary and that other guy with the shotgun who keeps hanging around; Dad-God must be off at church bingo again), by yelping his first words – “super sunday hamster blender!”
And, spiritually, the band name was born from the womb of bewilderment.
Oh, yeah, then the whole holiday became exploited and misdirected until internet shopping was invented, then it became meaningful again because you didn’t have to deal with all the bastards who just cannot fathom how to drive in a mall parking lot. Amen.
Merry (Post-) Hamstermas, for Christ’s sake.
posted by Bedlam1313 at
8:09 PM
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