| Guest Article: A Holiday Message From Pato |
I recently recieved a charming email letter on my computer machine from frequent ECG DOT COM vistor / highway robbist Pato. It came with an article attached and read like this:
| Subject: Hey Bitch! Publish This! |
Please. Publish John's article on ECG DOT COM. Or I'll have to kill this cute bunny rabbit. You like rabbits don't you? I'll fucking kill it, I fucking will!
| Well, what was I to do? Rabbits are great! So, in the interest of small furry animals worldwide, here it is. |
I have made one alteration, though. There was some use of a certain expletive in quantities that's extreme even by ECG DOT COM standards. Thus I've replaced the offending word with "happy little pony". In fact, that's a nice replacement in real life. "Damn, Eliza Dushku, have you taken a bath recently, because your happy little pony smells like a goddamn leather tannery!"
JOHN NEWHART'S GUIDE TO CHRISTMAS MADNESS
How could I respond the such gratitude from that happy little pony? Well, here it is. An article for his shitty happy little pony-like website where I explain Christmas Madness and, more importantly, called ECG a happy little pony. HAHAHA, SUCKED IN POOFTAH! YOU'RE BEING CALLED A HAPPY LITTLE PONY ON YOUR OWN WEBSITE!
| Hey, fucker! The holidays are here! If you're Christian or Jewish or Muslim or an evil fat cat Capitalist bastard or whatever, you'll be up to something or other this month. Unless you're a Buddhist. You're gonna have to work on December 25, peace bitch! Ahahaha. Where was I? Yeah, a bunch of happy little ponies are putting up Christmas trees and dressing up as Santa Claus, in the odd belief that every single person in the West is a Christian. |
But if you're doing something Christmas, you'll be at breaking point. And who the fuck could blame you? Visiting every toy store in town hoping to purchase that Wil Wheaton talking doll that your kids are expecting as a present. Visiting every DVD store in a 60-mile radius of your house hoping to find the boxed DVD sets of classic television series Thar Be Chinks and Oh Vicar, You Just Shit In My Teapot that your mother and grandmother are expecting as presents. Visiting every sex store in the nation hoping to get that Double Penetrator Jelly Double Dong that your half-sister is expecting as a present.
Add that to the trials of cooking a Christmas turkey and putting small silver coins in pudding that, quite frankly, looks like a mound of horse shit, it's a recipe for madness. And if you got any pussies asking for a vegetarian Christmas dinner, you'll totally go off your nut and commit mass murder.
But even if you don't have to cook on Christmas Day, you'll find that something will drive you over the edge. In Britain or a Commonwealth country, you'll find that a listening to some old bitch (who only became head-of-state because she's an in-born descendant of some Germanic happy little pony) bullshit on for several minutes will drive you nuts. In America, finally realising that you fucking elected a fucking dipshit illiterate spastic Texan fuckhead as your head of state and man who control several thousand nuclear weapons will easily do the job of going fucking mental.
It's FUCKING CHRISTFUCKINGMAS INFUCKINGSANITY and the only cure is alcohol. Actually, heroin is a more effective cure but the dealers put the price up so high that it ain't worth it. Which is actually a dumb idea from the dealer point of view as they seem to target guys who live under railway bridges. I mean, fucking hello?
Of course, there's the pressure of Christmas duties with your stupid fuckwit relatives performing their annual mental torture on you. But if you don't have that, don't think you're getting away without going mad. Haha, fucker! You're gonna have a mental breakdown because you have no family and friends. BECAUSE NOBODY FUCKING LIKES YOU.
You'll be spending Christmas all by yourself and you'll know why when you look in the mirror and see some sorry happy little pony. Yeah, that's you. Loser. GO FUCKING KILL YOURSELF. That's what you should do, so some sorry fucks wil seasonal depression can find your corpse on a rope on Boxing Day. Hey, if they're depressed...maybe they're sad like you. They might be your friend! Oh wait...haha, YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD LOSER! But they might join in commiting suicide.
But at least you don't have the embrassment of purchasing a subscription to I Like Priests Urinating In My Ear magazine for your uncle.
Anyway, anyway, anyway...there's always hope for everyone. On Christmas Day, drink just enough to knock yourself out and remember it could be a lot worse. You could have Christmas in the Southern Hemisphere where it's like 110 degrees on December 25 and impossible to digest turkey, pudding and sherry due to the coriolis effect. And if you have it in Australia, you'd be surrounded by shitheads and kids who want a Russell Crowe action figure as a present. Life doesn't sound so fucking bad now, does it?
There you go. Don't fear Christmas madness anymore, bitch.
(John's agent is Phil "From The Block" Paterson.)