C.A. MacConnell
1/12/2020
1/11/2020
1/10/2020
Clam
Today, on my walk, I saw a huge buck, an albino squirrel, and a redtailed hawk. It was truly amazing. Hope you enjoy this sexy piece. I'm feeling sexy. ;)
Clam
Take me inside.
These fragile tables,
these empty vases,
these antique chairs
have seen better days,
my friend. Outside,
weathered birds
poke hole after hole
into crooked trees,
furiously feeding,
deeply stabbing
at the edges. Take
me inside. Alone,
I sit and sip, shifting
through lost ones,
and I wonder where
you are dance-running,
searching for Sugarman,
telling each stranger
about your latest
revelation -- the long
version, freestyle,
whether or not the line
stretches down the aisle.
Tomorrow, you’ll fly
to Africa. Tomorrow,
you’ll buy a hand drum.
Tomorrow, you’ll catch
the lucky shot -- the rarest
herd of albino deer.
Tomorrow, you’ll find
the hidden fork --
a lost, forgotten path
within the infamous
trail. Tomorrow,
you'll be the first man
to ever feel each layer
of rainbow, painting
your fingertips with dew,
holding the most elusive
shades and tones,
one for each day
we live. Surround me
in your overcoat.
Take me inside
your ghetto or classy
room. Take me inside
where ceilings hold
stars and planets.
Take me inside,
where I can twist
the black band
from your hair,
letting it down loose,
whether tangled
or smooth. I will wear
your hippie hat.
I can almost taste
your too-sweet tea.
Take me inside.
Let me slide
like a clam
down your throat.
C.A. MacConnell
Clam
Take me inside.
These fragile tables,
these empty vases,
these antique chairs
have seen better days,
my friend. Outside,
weathered birds
poke hole after hole
into crooked trees,
furiously feeding,
deeply stabbing
at the edges. Take
me inside. Alone,
I sit and sip, shifting
through lost ones,
and I wonder where
you are dance-running,
searching for Sugarman,
telling each stranger
about your latest
revelation -- the long
version, freestyle,
whether or not the line
stretches down the aisle.
Tomorrow, you’ll fly
to Africa. Tomorrow,
you’ll buy a hand drum.
Tomorrow, you’ll catch
the lucky shot -- the rarest
herd of albino deer.
Tomorrow, you’ll find
the hidden fork --
a lost, forgotten path
within the infamous
trail. Tomorrow,
you'll be the first man
to ever feel each layer
of rainbow, painting
your fingertips with dew,
holding the most elusive
shades and tones,
one for each day
we live. Surround me
in your overcoat.
Take me inside
your ghetto or classy
room. Take me inside
where ceilings hold
stars and planets.
Take me inside,
where I can twist
the black band
from your hair,
letting it down loose,
whether tangled
or smooth. I will wear
your hippie hat.
I can almost taste
your too-sweet tea.
Take me inside.
Let me slide
like a clam
down your throat.
C.A. MacConnell
1/09/2020
1/07/2020
Blindsided
Working on this one just now. Getting my writing brain in gear through poems. :) <3 Love to you. Hope you like the piece. C.A.
Blindsided.
Quiet.
And the sheets are red.
Alone,
in the crimson morning,
I write, I'm not sure why,
but I think
I love him.
I'd be all right
with a child. I'm guessing
that every mosquito,
and every tree limb,
and every thunder crack back
has lived with such a feeling.
If I could, I'd ask the ant,
the cheetah,
or the Arizona night sky.
Surely,
here and now,
out there,
someone is blindsided
by a naked,
Iceland afternoon.
But there is no description
for the curious ways
we each trace a thousand fingers
down a thousand necks,
feeling the life there,
from smooth skin
to wrinkles.
Quiet.
Yes, the sheets
are red.
Alone, in the human
morning,
I write, I'm not sure why,
but I think
I love him.
One day, it seems
that he may carry me
all the way
up the safe
mountain.
C.A. MacConnell
Blindsided.
Quiet.
And the sheets are red.
Alone,
in the crimson morning,
I write, I'm not sure why,
but I think
I love him.
I'd be all right
with a child. I'm guessing
that every mosquito,
and every tree limb,
and every thunder crack back
has lived with such a feeling.
If I could, I'd ask the ant,
the cheetah,
or the Arizona night sky.
Surely,
here and now,
out there,
someone is blindsided
by a naked,
Iceland afternoon.
But there is no description
for the curious ways
we each trace a thousand fingers
down a thousand necks,
feeling the life there,
from smooth skin
to wrinkles.
Quiet.
Yes, the sheets
are red.
Alone, in the human
morning,
I write, I'm not sure why,
but I think
I love him.
One day, it seems
that he may carry me
all the way
up the safe
mountain.
C.A. MacConnell
1/05/2020
1/04/2020
1/02/2020
Bring It On.
I suppose these ideas have been swirling around in my head for a while now. I hope you enjoy the piece. Just wrote it right now. Love to you, C.A.
Bring It On.
Throughout my lifetime, as far back as I can remember, I've had periods when I've struggled with suicidal thinking. I've survived two serious suicide attempts -- three, if you count the reckless drinking days. Whoa, that's a "sledgehammer" essay beginning, I know. Bear with me. Often, a sense of hope leaks out and spills into my little stories. No worries.
Rock and roll.
This messy I-want-to-die-thought-pattern still comes and goes, even with hard work at my recovery and therapy, and even though I dutifully take the medication that keeps me from acting on it. Now, I admit that I'm a stubborn person. Ask my family. Oh lord, ask anyone I've ever dated. But in the mental health arena, stubbornness comes in handy; that is, it drives my ruthless fight to stay well.
I stick to it, because in turn, maybe I can help you.
When suicidal thoughts creep in, what do I do? Over and over, I talk about it. I tell my doctor, my mom, my dad, my spiritual adviser, anyone I trust deeply. I tell my uncle, the ducks, the trees. I talk about it in support groups. I write about it and later freak out about my naked transparency. I speak about it to crowds. I let...it...out. I have to. Sometimes I think, This is too personal. This is too shameful. No one should know this. But those damning thoughts are merely the darkness talking. See, being real and talking about it is what sets me free from it, because eventually, like all thoughts, these suicidal thoughts fade away.
Maybe even bliss rolls in. Never know when that gem might appear as well.
When I was little, I assumed that everyone had these thoughts daily, because I didn't know any different. I figured that the desire to die was a part of every person's schedule. Later, when I started to talk about it, I discovered that most people didn't ever think this way. Some, yes, for sure. And I also came to realize that I had a symptom of a larger monster, and this horror show was something that I could treat.
Treat, not cure. Treat. But I can help others treat it, and they can help me. I am never alone. I may spend a lot of time alone -- more than most -- but I am never truly alone. I mean, I believe in the Big Bang, but I also believe in a vast spirit, and I believe that there is great love within it.
Just my hunch. Look into some stranger's eyes. See the story there. We all have our fights. And there is one magnificent force that always helps, and that is love.
Which brings me to this...recently I've had a slew of health battles. Frustrating and painful, yes. Drawn-out. Annoying. Frightening. But right now, I sit here in pajamas, feeling nauseous, nursing a stress migraine (I guess, I've lost track of the aches, ha), and I'm realizing something: I may be one 5'2" woman, but I am truly powerful. Also, through the course of fighting through this past few months, I realize that if I'm working this damn hard at getting well, there is a bigger lesson here, and that is this truth: deep down, in the core of all of my being, I want to live. I want to live more than anything. I want to live. I don't have room for those negative thoughts anymore, because I want to live. Fuck suicide. Fuck that thinking in general. I don't have the time or energy for it anymore. I want to live.
I want to live because one of my friends is struggling with this dark thinking right now, and he needs support. I want to live because another friend has been in and out of the hospital for months, and he needs prayers. I want to live because I've been praying for two of my friends, and they both just miraculously got clean. I want to live for my parents, my brother and sister, my Mimi in heaven, and for all of the love in my life day in, day out.
Bring it on.
The next time I feel those suicidal thoughts creep in, I will remind myself of these past few months, and I will remember how I've walked around with a new sense of trust in the spirit that resides somewhere, out there. Lately, I may not have been 100% physically, but spiritually, I've felt strangely strong and new.
And if the dark thoughts roll in, I will remember how I feel right at this moment -- my soul wants to live, and the obsessive thinking is just that...invalid, obsessive thinking.
If you are struggling out there, above all, belt it out. Call, write, go to a group, hug your cat, take pictures, sing, dance, box, do yoga, do whatever it takes to turn it around. And remember, even in the blackest alleys, love is always a solution. Always.
My place here is divine. Your place here is divine. And rest assured that no matter what, everything always changes, and in the end, there is great joy coming for me, and for you.
C.A. MacConnell
Bring It On.
Throughout my lifetime, as far back as I can remember, I've had periods when I've struggled with suicidal thinking. I've survived two serious suicide attempts -- three, if you count the reckless drinking days. Whoa, that's a "sledgehammer" essay beginning, I know. Bear with me. Often, a sense of hope leaks out and spills into my little stories. No worries.
Rock and roll.
This messy I-want-to-die-thought-pattern still comes and goes, even with hard work at my recovery and therapy, and even though I dutifully take the medication that keeps me from acting on it. Now, I admit that I'm a stubborn person. Ask my family. Oh lord, ask anyone I've ever dated. But in the mental health arena, stubbornness comes in handy; that is, it drives my ruthless fight to stay well.
I stick to it, because in turn, maybe I can help you.
When suicidal thoughts creep in, what do I do? Over and over, I talk about it. I tell my doctor, my mom, my dad, my spiritual adviser, anyone I trust deeply. I tell my uncle, the ducks, the trees. I talk about it in support groups. I write about it and later freak out about my naked transparency. I speak about it to crowds. I let...it...out. I have to. Sometimes I think, This is too personal. This is too shameful. No one should know this. But those damning thoughts are merely the darkness talking. See, being real and talking about it is what sets me free from it, because eventually, like all thoughts, these suicidal thoughts fade away.
Maybe even bliss rolls in. Never know when that gem might appear as well.
When I was little, I assumed that everyone had these thoughts daily, because I didn't know any different. I figured that the desire to die was a part of every person's schedule. Later, when I started to talk about it, I discovered that most people didn't ever think this way. Some, yes, for sure. And I also came to realize that I had a symptom of a larger monster, and this horror show was something that I could treat.
Treat, not cure. Treat. But I can help others treat it, and they can help me. I am never alone. I may spend a lot of time alone -- more than most -- but I am never truly alone. I mean, I believe in the Big Bang, but I also believe in a vast spirit, and I believe that there is great love within it.
Just my hunch. Look into some stranger's eyes. See the story there. We all have our fights. And there is one magnificent force that always helps, and that is love.
Which brings me to this...recently I've had a slew of health battles. Frustrating and painful, yes. Drawn-out. Annoying. Frightening. But right now, I sit here in pajamas, feeling nauseous, nursing a stress migraine (I guess, I've lost track of the aches, ha), and I'm realizing something: I may be one 5'2" woman, but I am truly powerful. Also, through the course of fighting through this past few months, I realize that if I'm working this damn hard at getting well, there is a bigger lesson here, and that is this truth: deep down, in the core of all of my being, I want to live. I want to live more than anything. I want to live. I don't have room for those negative thoughts anymore, because I want to live. Fuck suicide. Fuck that thinking in general. I don't have the time or energy for it anymore. I want to live.
I want to live because one of my friends is struggling with this dark thinking right now, and he needs support. I want to live because another friend has been in and out of the hospital for months, and he needs prayers. I want to live because I've been praying for two of my friends, and they both just miraculously got clean. I want to live for my parents, my brother and sister, my Mimi in heaven, and for all of the love in my life day in, day out.
Bring it on.
The next time I feel those suicidal thoughts creep in, I will remind myself of these past few months, and I will remember how I've walked around with a new sense of trust in the spirit that resides somewhere, out there. Lately, I may not have been 100% physically, but spiritually, I've felt strangely strong and new.
And if the dark thoughts roll in, I will remember how I feel right at this moment -- my soul wants to live, and the obsessive thinking is just that...invalid, obsessive thinking.
If you are struggling out there, above all, belt it out. Call, write, go to a group, hug your cat, take pictures, sing, dance, box, do yoga, do whatever it takes to turn it around. And remember, even in the blackest alleys, love is always a solution. Always.
My place here is divine. Your place here is divine. And rest assured that no matter what, everything always changes, and in the end, there is great joy coming for me, and for you.
C.A. MacConnell
1/01/2020
Happy 2020!
This very morning, guess who stopped by outside my window for the first time this year? My hawk friend, wishing me a Happy New Year. Magic! My first visitor of 2020 is my spirit animal. Special. <3
C.A. MacConnell
12/31/2019
12/28/2019
12/27/2019
12/22/2019
12/21/2019
The Gruesome Raccoon
A few years back, I was teaching a group riding lesson to three kids.
We were in the indoor ring, because it was winter and suddenly, Flakey
and Cliff, two of the schoolhorses, started to act shifty. Flakey was
definitely twitchy and nervous. Now, Flakey was a nervous type, but I knew him like he was my brother,
and he was acting stranger than usual. Cliff was slightly moving his
big body a little more than normal, which was an effort for Cliff, so
that was odd to me as well. And Buddy, the pony, just stood there, which
was typical of Buddy. Nothing ever got to him, so he was a star
schoolhorse (minus running out of the ring door a few times), but I
really couldn't count on Buddy for any alerts.
Then Flakey backed up, pointing his nose up and down, blowing air through his nostrils.
I thought, Maybe a storm's coming. Maybe the vet's here. Maybe there's a truck coming -- shavings guy or the hay guys. Something of the sort. But then I looked up...and there, dangling from the rafters, was a bear-sized, nonathletic, clumsy-as-hell raccoon. Quickly, I told the students to back up the horses so that the raccoon didn't fall on them. Of course, I assumed that the raccoon wouldn't fall, but I felt like I had to be safe, just in case. Well, the raccoon did indeed fall. And it fell right in the middle of the ring. And the frenzied thing landed in a shuddering lump.
Flakey stomped and pawed at the ground. Cliff moved his big body around. Buddy did nothing.
Then the raccoon stood up on his hind legs.
I figured I could just wave my arms around and scare it away. I thought, Yeah, if that raccoon's bear-sized, I have to act like a bigger bear. Genius. Well, the closer I got, the bigger that raccoon stood up, and I swear that a creepy smile spread across its face. And then I realized that it was probably a rabid raccoon, or that it had been poisoned, so the animal was not even close to being in its right mind, and then the terrible truth became clear: this raccoon wasn't afraid of me at all. So I stood in front of the horses, "protecting them," but I also realized that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
The raccoon smiled at me, standing taller and taller.
Perhaps it was chuckling, drooling, spitting up poison. At any moment, I thought that it would put on a top hat, some tap shoes, grab a cane, and start dancing around the ring. I'd seen a few raccoons in my day, and I knew they could be somewhat creepy, but this was the most ghoulish raccoon that I had ever seen. And then the creature did do a weird, menacing dance across the ring, and in the process, it came closer and closer to me, until it was only a few feet away.
At one point, I thought it might jump right on top of me. After all, it seemed to have taken a real liking to me, as if mauling my face might be a good idea. I looked back at Flakey.
Big-eyed, I swore Flakey was saying, What the hell do we do?
There was nothing I could do. I could tell the kids to dismount, but I figured they were safer up high. I mean, I sure as hell wasn't safe on the ground. So I just stared at the dancing, sinister, rabid raccoon, stood there, and did nothing. I knew I was powerless.
The standoff lasted about ten minutes, but it felt like three hours. Finally, the beast jerk-walked to the ring door and made its way outside. But before it left the ring, it turned around and looked at me with those glowing, red eyes, slowly crawling away in a lump of gruesome, half-dead, zombie-ish, hair-raising, poisonous, slug-like alien goo, as if it were Jabba the Hutt's dreadful cousin.
I realized that this riding lesson was for me, the teacher. I thought, Sometimes, if I kick back and wait, and follow my instincts, the situation fixes itself, and I don't have to do anything at all. Then I calmly smiled, looked at my wide-eyed students, and asked, "Okay, now whose turn is it?"
C.A. MacConnell
Then Flakey backed up, pointing his nose up and down, blowing air through his nostrils.
I thought, Maybe a storm's coming. Maybe the vet's here. Maybe there's a truck coming -- shavings guy or the hay guys. Something of the sort. But then I looked up...and there, dangling from the rafters, was a bear-sized, nonathletic, clumsy-as-hell raccoon. Quickly, I told the students to back up the horses so that the raccoon didn't fall on them. Of course, I assumed that the raccoon wouldn't fall, but I felt like I had to be safe, just in case. Well, the raccoon did indeed fall. And it fell right in the middle of the ring. And the frenzied thing landed in a shuddering lump.
Flakey stomped and pawed at the ground. Cliff moved his big body around. Buddy did nothing.
Then the raccoon stood up on his hind legs.
I figured I could just wave my arms around and scare it away. I thought, Yeah, if that raccoon's bear-sized, I have to act like a bigger bear. Genius. Well, the closer I got, the bigger that raccoon stood up, and I swear that a creepy smile spread across its face. And then I realized that it was probably a rabid raccoon, or that it had been poisoned, so the animal was not even close to being in its right mind, and then the terrible truth became clear: this raccoon wasn't afraid of me at all. So I stood in front of the horses, "protecting them," but I also realized that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
The raccoon smiled at me, standing taller and taller.
Perhaps it was chuckling, drooling, spitting up poison. At any moment, I thought that it would put on a top hat, some tap shoes, grab a cane, and start dancing around the ring. I'd seen a few raccoons in my day, and I knew they could be somewhat creepy, but this was the most ghoulish raccoon that I had ever seen. And then the creature did do a weird, menacing dance across the ring, and in the process, it came closer and closer to me, until it was only a few feet away.
At one point, I thought it might jump right on top of me. After all, it seemed to have taken a real liking to me, as if mauling my face might be a good idea. I looked back at Flakey.
Big-eyed, I swore Flakey was saying, What the hell do we do?
There was nothing I could do. I could tell the kids to dismount, but I figured they were safer up high. I mean, I sure as hell wasn't safe on the ground. So I just stared at the dancing, sinister, rabid raccoon, stood there, and did nothing. I knew I was powerless.
The standoff lasted about ten minutes, but it felt like three hours. Finally, the beast jerk-walked to the ring door and made its way outside. But before it left the ring, it turned around and looked at me with those glowing, red eyes, slowly crawling away in a lump of gruesome, half-dead, zombie-ish, hair-raising, poisonous, slug-like alien goo, as if it were Jabba the Hutt's dreadful cousin.
I realized that this riding lesson was for me, the teacher. I thought, Sometimes, if I kick back and wait, and follow my instincts, the situation fixes itself, and I don't have to do anything at all. Then I calmly smiled, looked at my wide-eyed students, and asked, "Okay, now whose turn is it?"
C.A. MacConnell
12/14/2019
Don't tell anyone...
...but THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR is my favorite. Find it here.
Click link for a startling description!
Genius,
C.A. MacConnell
12/13/2019
12/12/2019
12/11/2019
12/10/2019
The Origins of Santa (For Adults Only)
In ancient times, in a land far, far away, somewhere cold all of the
time, otherwise known as "nipply," somewhere white where snowmen ruled
the earth and could creepily talk and sing like Burl Ives, there was
born a male child with a bowlful of jelly (Beefeater Gin). It wasn’t a
virgin birth at all. Actually, Grandma Claus got around. Anyway, out of
the womb, the male child came laughing and singing. Of course he was
laughing and singing. He was full of gin. They meant to name him
"Santana," because they believed him to be musically inclined, but it
came out "Santa" by accident.
Santa's first word was “cookie.” His second words were, “Do boys still like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? I think they do, so let me create some out of toothpicks like MacGyver would.” By the time the male child was 10, his hair was all white, and he had a beard, so everyone at school made fun of him at first, but then they were really nice, because they figured out that Santa could buy them alcohol, since he looked so old. So he laughed with his bowlful of jelly (Scotch) and went to many parties and looked at the women snow angels and exclaimed, “Ho, ho, ho!” All of the women got mad and beat him up until his cheeks were rosy, which was kind of scary and kind of fun and made puberty interesting.
Back then, Santa wore red and green tie-dyed shirts and sold “presents” at school for a living, hiding cash and extra “toys” inside the gap between his Hanes crew socks and his big black combat boots. His Claus parents were worried, so they locked Santa in the wood shop to punish him for being so sneaky. No one in the cold land had ever sold "presents" before. Santa had no idea what to do, so he smoked his last joint, and then he became extremely creative. Right then and there, he picked up a hammer and made a fifty foot doll house. Then he thought, What the fuck am I going to do with this fifty foot dollhouse? It's so cold around here, all anybody wants are space heaters from Wall-Mart, and the market is ridiculously terrible these days with this economy. His parents became very, very mad at him for cussing, so they made him give the dollhouse to a pretty girl in the next village, a girl who later became his wife, Mrs. Claus, but she's a person we won’t mention anymore because she’s never mentioned much because she’s just there to make Santa eat. In fact, lets just “X” out the previous sentence all together. Actually, lately, women are making a comeback, so lets keep her in but don't tell her.
Anyway, Santa liked the idea of giving girls presents so much that he couldn’t stop, because Santa had that kind of personality. Then when he ran out of girls, he realized that some boys were all right too. He only liked “good” boys and girls, ones who were quiet and followed the rules. Santa’s parents were worried for a while, but he made them an outdoor sauna in his wood shop, so they got all quiet and spent the days in the sauna, getting pruny and relaxing.
Then Santa popped some acid and began making mass quantities of brilliant toys in his wood shop, and suddenly, there were so many toys that he needed serious help. At rehab, Santa found some big-eared troublemakers -- a gang of Elves who were new in town, connected with the Old Town Williamsburg mob, and having rumbles all the time. Santa suggested to the Elves that it might be healing for them to come check out his presents at the wood shop. So they did. Like Santa, the Elves got addicted to the presents, so they had to work for Santa to continue their habit. It worked out beautifully. Side note: there was a lot of cookie eating, but one of the Elves was a dentist, so it was no problem.
Everybody was eating a lot of late night pizza, straight mayo and Doritos, and getting chubby, so they all needed exercise, so Santa told the Elves they needed to help him deliver presents on foot to the entire world on one night of the year, which was some super amazing exercise. Santa picked December 24th, Christmas Eve, because Jesus appeared to him in a peyote-induced dream and told him to do that, and he figured he’d better listen.
So at first, all of the Elves and Santa carried mass amounts of toys all over the Earth. Wearing long hair and tie-dyes, they traveled by foot, and they really had to hurry to make it through the oceans in one night. But they made it. Some houses were hard to break into, so they just shoved Santa down the chimney, and they could usually escape alarm systems that way, but sometimes they would run into wild animals and cobwebs and soot. Every now and then, Santa left presents, and then he took some things, such as flat screen TVs, pool tables, jewelry, and sometimes, Chia pets and fruitcakes. He would then wrap these goods up and deliver them to a neighbor, where he would then “accidentally” pick up more expensive things and pass them on to the next neighbor. Ingenious. But sometimes he kept the small stuff that was worth a lot of money. But he didn’t tell the Elves. He didn’t want them to worry. It worked really well. Side note: Santa invented recycling.
Not only did he not get arrested, but everywhere in the lands, people were leaving him milk and cookies, which was perfect, because on Christmas Eve trips, he and the Elves always had a wicked case of the munchies. Grandma and Grandpa Claus were so proud of Santa, they gave him a red and white suit, a red and white hat, a black belt, a carton of cigarettes and a noogie.
When Grandma and Grandpa Claus mysteriously died young in an accident involving carefully placed icicles, Santa happily came into some cash. He decided he needed to invest. So he went down the lane, and he got a great deal on a souped-up magic sleigh from the out-of-business car dealership sale, but then Santa had no way to pull the sleigh. Even though it was magic, it still needed help, because the dealership lied about the steering issues. Aha, Santa repeatedly saw dead deer while he was walking around, because people were building too many houses and making the deer lose their homes, which made Santa sad. So he decided to recruit some of the extra deer to try and pull his sleigh.
At first, the deer didn’t want to. They wanted to run and play and jump and be deer, but Santa slipped them some choice deer food one day, which involved hormones and steroids, and the deer started smiling more and decided to become a team led by Rudolph, the town deer drunk with the red nose.
From then on, Santa rode in his souped-up magic sleigh with deer pulling his way, and together, they all delivered presents to all the good girls and boys on the night of December 24th. Sometimes, Santa still visits local Christmas Lands and Malls and Churches, making guest appearances, where he always wears his red suit, his white beard, his hat, his black belt and boots, sometimes glasses, and where good boys and girls sit on his lap and sometimes urinate on him. No worries, when this happens, Santa looks out at the long line waiting to see him, finding a woman with a nice rack, looks right at her, laughs with his bowlful of jelly (Absolut Vodka) and says, “Ho, ho, ho,” then later shows her the magic Santaland House.
The End
C.A. MacConnell
Santa's first word was “cookie.” His second words were, “Do boys still like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? I think they do, so let me create some out of toothpicks like MacGyver would.” By the time the male child was 10, his hair was all white, and he had a beard, so everyone at school made fun of him at first, but then they were really nice, because they figured out that Santa could buy them alcohol, since he looked so old. So he laughed with his bowlful of jelly (Scotch) and went to many parties and looked at the women snow angels and exclaimed, “Ho, ho, ho!” All of the women got mad and beat him up until his cheeks were rosy, which was kind of scary and kind of fun and made puberty interesting.
Back then, Santa wore red and green tie-dyed shirts and sold “presents” at school for a living, hiding cash and extra “toys” inside the gap between his Hanes crew socks and his big black combat boots. His Claus parents were worried, so they locked Santa in the wood shop to punish him for being so sneaky. No one in the cold land had ever sold "presents" before. Santa had no idea what to do, so he smoked his last joint, and then he became extremely creative. Right then and there, he picked up a hammer and made a fifty foot doll house. Then he thought, What the fuck am I going to do with this fifty foot dollhouse? It's so cold around here, all anybody wants are space heaters from Wall-Mart, and the market is ridiculously terrible these days with this economy. His parents became very, very mad at him for cussing, so they made him give the dollhouse to a pretty girl in the next village, a girl who later became his wife, Mrs. Claus, but she's a person we won’t mention anymore because she’s never mentioned much because she’s just there to make Santa eat. In fact, lets just “X” out the previous sentence all together. Actually, lately, women are making a comeback, so lets keep her in but don't tell her.
Anyway, Santa liked the idea of giving girls presents so much that he couldn’t stop, because Santa had that kind of personality. Then when he ran out of girls, he realized that some boys were all right too. He only liked “good” boys and girls, ones who were quiet and followed the rules. Santa’s parents were worried for a while, but he made them an outdoor sauna in his wood shop, so they got all quiet and spent the days in the sauna, getting pruny and relaxing.
Then Santa popped some acid and began making mass quantities of brilliant toys in his wood shop, and suddenly, there were so many toys that he needed serious help. At rehab, Santa found some big-eared troublemakers -- a gang of Elves who were new in town, connected with the Old Town Williamsburg mob, and having rumbles all the time. Santa suggested to the Elves that it might be healing for them to come check out his presents at the wood shop. So they did. Like Santa, the Elves got addicted to the presents, so they had to work for Santa to continue their habit. It worked out beautifully. Side note: there was a lot of cookie eating, but one of the Elves was a dentist, so it was no problem.
Everybody was eating a lot of late night pizza, straight mayo and Doritos, and getting chubby, so they all needed exercise, so Santa told the Elves they needed to help him deliver presents on foot to the entire world on one night of the year, which was some super amazing exercise. Santa picked December 24th, Christmas Eve, because Jesus appeared to him in a peyote-induced dream and told him to do that, and he figured he’d better listen.
So at first, all of the Elves and Santa carried mass amounts of toys all over the Earth. Wearing long hair and tie-dyes, they traveled by foot, and they really had to hurry to make it through the oceans in one night. But they made it. Some houses were hard to break into, so they just shoved Santa down the chimney, and they could usually escape alarm systems that way, but sometimes they would run into wild animals and cobwebs and soot. Every now and then, Santa left presents, and then he took some things, such as flat screen TVs, pool tables, jewelry, and sometimes, Chia pets and fruitcakes. He would then wrap these goods up and deliver them to a neighbor, where he would then “accidentally” pick up more expensive things and pass them on to the next neighbor. Ingenious. But sometimes he kept the small stuff that was worth a lot of money. But he didn’t tell the Elves. He didn’t want them to worry. It worked really well. Side note: Santa invented recycling.
Not only did he not get arrested, but everywhere in the lands, people were leaving him milk and cookies, which was perfect, because on Christmas Eve trips, he and the Elves always had a wicked case of the munchies. Grandma and Grandpa Claus were so proud of Santa, they gave him a red and white suit, a red and white hat, a black belt, a carton of cigarettes and a noogie.
When Grandma and Grandpa Claus mysteriously died young in an accident involving carefully placed icicles, Santa happily came into some cash. He decided he needed to invest. So he went down the lane, and he got a great deal on a souped-up magic sleigh from the out-of-business car dealership sale, but then Santa had no way to pull the sleigh. Even though it was magic, it still needed help, because the dealership lied about the steering issues. Aha, Santa repeatedly saw dead deer while he was walking around, because people were building too many houses and making the deer lose their homes, which made Santa sad. So he decided to recruit some of the extra deer to try and pull his sleigh.
At first, the deer didn’t want to. They wanted to run and play and jump and be deer, but Santa slipped them some choice deer food one day, which involved hormones and steroids, and the deer started smiling more and decided to become a team led by Rudolph, the town deer drunk with the red nose.
From then on, Santa rode in his souped-up magic sleigh with deer pulling his way, and together, they all delivered presents to all the good girls and boys on the night of December 24th. Sometimes, Santa still visits local Christmas Lands and Malls and Churches, making guest appearances, where he always wears his red suit, his white beard, his hat, his black belt and boots, sometimes glasses, and where good boys and girls sit on his lap and sometimes urinate on him. No worries, when this happens, Santa looks out at the long line waiting to see him, finding a woman with a nice rack, looks right at her, laughs with his bowlful of jelly (Absolut Vodka) and says, “Ho, ho, ho,” then later shows her the magic Santaland House.
The End
C.A. MacConnell
