I'll come up with something in a minute.

Best not to ask

Dig if you will the picture, of you and I engaged in a kiss which came to my sick demented mind.

A stable, with a baby laying in the manger. Around his left arm is a dark spiraling tattoo of a Chinese dragon, and a teardrop next to one eye. In his right hand, a straight razor with a pearl handle gleems brightly. But he’s still in the swaddling clothes, that’s very important.

Mary and Joey are less kneeling to pray and more standing by with shades on and holding Mac 10s. But they’ve still of the sort of pastel robes that the nativity characters always had.

Above is an angel, so loaded down with bling that he can barely fly, holding a banner that reads, “Does the Baby Jesus hafta cut a bitch?” Instead of you know, Peace on Earth or some other such statement.

And that, Mister Scrooge, has nothing to do with the true meaning of Christmas. If you see an image like that, run in the other direction very, very fast.

Where do things like this come from? Why does such a clear and perfect image suddenly infest my brain? Why would the Baby Jesus even ask if he has to cut a bitch? Doesn’t seem his style. And yet, there it is. The Baby Jesus, and his posse, looking to cut someone.

I can only assume that these are the ravages of drugs, poor formal education, excellent informal education and the early onset of dementia. Gonna be fun when I really do go loopy and this shit is on tap 24/7, huh?

August 31, 2009 - Posted by | Uncategorized

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