Requiem For A Deadweight

[Ed. Note: This is what Wheelgun Bob submitted for his “Christmas” blog. He has obviously taken another big step on the long way down. Perhaps we could get him to start drinking again.]

I woke up this Christmas morning alone for the first time in my fifty years. I have a certain evil person to thank for that but I will no longer mention her since she is the one who shall not be named. No doubt she is in the clutches of some whiskey scented Santa Claus.

Well, bored and uncomprehending masses, what shall I blog about on this, the day of Christ's birthday? How about guns? Yes! Its been too damned long since I've slung any lead. Maybe I could take Rita Mae (my S & Wesson .357 magnum) to the end of the harbor and plink away at the Isles of Shoals. I have these little Christmas boxers and Santa hat I could wear that my crazy pal Doug gave me (he once gave me a cock ring and my girlfriend a ball gag for Christmas). What a site I would make! A despondent fat fucker dressed in Santa boxers at the end of a harbor shooting at some goddamned islands in the north Atlantic! How bloody pathetic. Yet oddly festive.

Speaking of festive, I think I will take my Christmas tree, drag it out to my back yard, pour some gas on it and set fire to the mother fucker! It would be “laugh out loud funny” as People Magazine raves! Who knows, maybe some boat will see the conflagration, come pick me up, spirit me to an island populated only by women and I will become their lord-high-god phallic ruler. Hey, stranger things have happened.

Or maybe I will just lay here in bed and watch “Bad Santa.” Some tell me it's a fucking riot. Well, I have my fucking doubts.