Suggested Audio Mistletoe:
Elvis Presley “Blue Christmas”
‘Tis the night before Christmas and I have been frantically wrapping any last-minute gifts for the Grueheads in honor of our very first Christmas together. It was all going swimmingly until a few minutes ago when I ran out of sticky tape but, fortunately, I concocted some of my own makeshift adhesive to finish the task at hand. It is my aim to fulfill as many of your desires as possible within one bumper seasonal article and have a full stocking of treats so settle in with your poison of choice and don’t forget to leave a tray of mince pies on the doorstep. Actually, scrap that, make it medium rare prime rib steak and don’t even think of leaving a glass of milk for Rudolph as he’s lactose intolerant and I’m the poor bastard tasked with mucking out his stable every morning. When you consider how many children I must visit over the next twelve hours, I could do without reindeer detail first thing in the morning. I’m telling you, being Santa is a thankless task.
Anyhoots, first things first. You’ll be pleased to know that I read all your Christmas lists and will endeavor to fulfil any requests within the next 1000 words or so. That’s right Grueheads; I’m stuffing this turkey to the back of its beak and plan to go in right up to the elbow on this occasion. As this is my first time fleecing the bird I may need a couple of questions answered before we commence. Firstly, is said turkey supposed to be deceased before I fist it? Secondly, would you be terribly disappointed if we skip the brussel sprouts? They currently stand behind only mushrooms in my list of foods that I wouldn’t wish to run into in a dark alley. As for pulling crackers, well, I have to admit I find them a little overrated. Our scant reward for a one-sided tug-o-war with grandpa is invariably either a plastic spinning top or busted whistle and we all know that gramps has a tendency to evacuate his colon whenever he over exerts himself so let’s just save the old fellow the indignity shall we?
Never let it be said that I’m lacking seasonal cheer. What good is crimbo without a good old-fashioned sing-song? Well it just so happens have one such shanty planned and, should you really object to the absence of cracker pulling, then my festive closing gallery should offer you something to tug. How does that little lot grab you? I trust that will cater for any naughty children. Contrary to folklore, this particular Santa does not penalize his underlings for being a tad mischievous. If you’re concerned as to where the regular Saint Nick has got to this all hallow’s eve then allow me to elaborate on his absence. I laced his whiskey with Rohypnol as he’d only get under my feet anyhoots. Besides, we are the kids of Generation X, and there is no reason to hand deliver Kerplunk and Mouse Trap anymore as the worldwide web stocking is considerably deeper and involves far less heavy lifting. There should be something for most tastes; a festive banquet fit for kings and queens as that, my beloved kindred, is what each last one of you are.
I was fixated with December 25th like any other wide-eyed infant and believed in the magic of christmas right up to the day when I became a father and my little boy pilfered my limelight. My parents stepped up to the plate every year to ensure my three older siblings and I had a day to remember and I still do all these years later. Of course, as the years pass, the stocking withers away, ultimately being replaced by a gym sock. Suddenly Mr Clause forsakes you in favor of frequenting pastures new. This year, with all the dramatic events which have transpired, I haven’t even noticed the run-up. I’ve barely given it a solitary thought as I’ve been far too busy melting down like slag. I may currently have more problems than Jay-Z and just as many bitches but it is a time of giving after all and, while my internet connection plays ball, there’s one way in which I can celebrate with my loved ones.
Never let it be said that the Keeper of The Crimson Quill be a Grinch; I pledge to make our first Grue family Christmas one we’ll fondly remember in when we’re stuffing ourselves with turkey sandwiches and dreading that new year MasterCard statement in mid-January. Rivers of Grue has not yet completed its first full trimester but during that time we have been through so much together. There have been tears of joy and sobs of sadness but the constant has always been love. That comforts my soul, I only wish to spread love and believe that, by doing so, it supplies a glimmer of hope to eclipse any burgeoning consternation. Only last night, I received the following message and it inspired me beyond words. “I love how your beautiful mind works. Such awareness of each thought and emotion. Consciousness, subjectivity, sentience.” I could have contracted Myxomatosis right then and there and would still have felt like clicking my heels. My lily pad may be way across the pond to many of you but make no mistake, every single time I scribe, I’m right there alongside you, flashing my baubles.
I may be jumping the gun here but there seems no time better than present to inform you of my 2014 New Year resolution. You will have noted audio accompaniment for many of the articles released of late and I would like to confirm that it’s no short-term sweetener. From this point forward, I shall make it my oath to offer a cinematic experience, as that is ultimately where my endowments lie. In a perfect world I would read every last piece of literature to you personally and there will come a time when this can become the norm. My work is designed to be delivered from the horse’s mouth and is all about ebbs and flow. Through bending your ears with themed sound bites, I’m aiming to make this much more than a simple reading assignment.
When John Carpenter presented Halloween to test audiences before the audio was set in place, he was met with a chorus of disapproval and, even more heartbreakingly, indifference. I had my ears syringed a few years back and it really was the most delightful experience outside of sitting in a cattle shed, having your prostate gland milked by Barbara Crampton. As I left the surgery, and was assaulted by the sounds of chirping birds and distant gunshots, it felt great to be alive. I’m positively squealing about the possibilities; imagine reading the Suspiria appraisal whilst your blood runs colder than an Eskimo’s snowballs. A dash of audio can make all the difference and in 2014, it becomes all about enhancement, not merely consolidation. If there is one thing I will never be held culpable of it’s resting on my laurels. I pledge to keep learning and progress with my art, practising humility, and interacting with goodwill to all. If kind comments afford me a little extra swagger then I’ll plough that straight into my prose. But I’ll still be Rich, a simple man with simple needs. Just great goals.
It pleases me to see that you’ve all make a special effort and you all look rather dashing in your party hats it has to be said. Be warned Grueheads; they will likely perforate within three minutes. Smiles will then transform into grimaces, Grampa may well shit in his slacks as he dozes off in the armchair, and Auntie Edith will invariably have a tad too much Sherry and flop out her areolae on little Jimmy’s shoulders. Fret not about their quirks as, above all else, we’ll be with our loved ones. It’s time to simply kick back, bloated and content, and lend me your ears as the time has come for the shanty I promised.
Come come little lady, here sit on my knee
I have something right here just for you dear
Won’t be found in your stocking or under the tree
There’s just one other place it could be dear
Shuffle into my lap, let your body go limber
and take a good look at my shrubbery
There may be no twigs, but there’s no lack of timber
Don’t fret it will slide in just lovely
My baubles may slap as I launch my attack
while my tinsel may tickle your quim
You’ll feel my cold digits as they clutch your back fat
Allowing me deeper within
There’s something erupting, about to get fucked in
that’s purer and whiter than snow
A cream blanket no less, for your ass to be tucked in
as I pull out and flee, ho ho ho
My apologies if I have shattered your dreams
by exploiting the clause in my contract
This particular Santa is not as it seems
and this time you’ve gone fondled the wrong sack
as I slid down your stack just a few moments back
I left crude residue on your Persian
Unintentional yes but I just have this knack
for filling my boots with perversion
I should be vacating as Prancer is waiting
and that blighter’s been known to court treason
Rudolph’s already been caught masturbating
and it so happens Prancer’s in season
Fret not my sweet child as I cum once a year
very soon it will all be forgotten
It’s just I administer seasonal cheer
with left and right thumb up your bottom
Thank you one and all Grueheads. I hope my works have provided you glee when feeling glum this year, offered smiles as opposed to grimaces, and empowered your 2013 to be as unexpected a voyage of discovery as it has proved for me scribing. 2014 is looming and my sleeves are mighty long so expect the unexpected and I shall bleed both my heart and soul into every single piece of literature on next year’s platter. It can think of no more enthusing a prospect than to continue serving my glorious readership for twelve more months. Moreover, I proudly consider myself a lifer. If there is one solitary nugget of wisdom I have gleaned from 2013 then it would be that I was born to do this. Not only have I discovered my true calling this year but I have also rubbed noses with some of the most resplendent people I could ever have wished to meet. Compare me to Father Christmas and it will be he found wanting. Once a year eh Santa? Call that a return on twelve month’s investment. You should be ashamed of yourself; I hope someone siphons the brake fluid from your sled you parsimonious parasite. Stick with Keeper and, I make it my solemn vow, that there will be no Mariah Carey. Right now, for this one magical day of the year, let’s just chill in our cribs like villains and enjoy the festivities.