“I should tie your nuts in a knot,” Misty snapped, wearing a hot pink sweater that said Frosty the Blowman on it that pictured a snowman on his knees pleasuring Santa.
That one threw me for a loop. I hadn’t realized that Santa swung both ways. And who knew snowmen had knees? Thankfully, Baby Thornycraft’s sweater only had a reindeer taking a dump on it.
“You’ve lost your mind, old man,” Cupid said with a laugh. “This will certainly go down in history as a day no one will forget.”
Cupid’s sweater was a blinding, bright red that said I’ve Got Ho-Ho-Ho’s in Different Area Codes. Definitely non-traditional. If I had any fashion sense, I would say it was hideous. It was excellent that I had no taste.
The next irate couple to grace the beach was Madison and Rick. I seriously hoped Madison wasn’t carrying concealed weapons. The Mermaid had outstanding aim and her weapon of choice was a dagger. On the outside chance I was going to lose a nard, I hid behind the Clam Band.
“I’m standing in the back,” Madison snapped, pointing at her sweater. “Get Lit?” she yelled. “Seriously? A freaking drunk Christmas tree telling everyone to get wasted?”
“Duuuude,” Rick said shaking his head and chuckling. “I would like to go on record for all to hear. I did not bang Santa no matter what this ugly sweater says.”
“It says you shagged Santa, not banged Santa,” Pirate Doug pointed out only to be tackled by all of his brothers-in-law at the same time.
“Boys,” I bellowed. “Do not get blood on your sweaters. It will ruin the photo.”
Wally slapped me up the backside of my head. “Blood will only help,” she informed me.
With the violent brawl in full swing, we were joined by the rest of the family. Upton arrived with his mate, Yolanda the Yeti. Thankfully, their sweaters were only semi-offensive. Upton’s sweater had Santa smoking a cigarette on it—or a joint. Yolanda’s was covered in tiny midgets wearing red hats and dancing with each other… or possibly fornicating. I didn’t have the time for Yolanda to go all Squatch on me, so I was delighted and relieved they seemed calm.
Bonar arrived with his mate, my great-great-great-great granddaughter and then some, Kim. With them was her adorable half-gnome—half-god, toddler son Neville. Upton, Kim and Neville were clad in sweaters that said Happy New Year 2001 on them.
No wonder they were only fifty cents—not that I’d paid for any of them.
“As soon as Bony Velma arrives, we will take the photo,” I announced.
“Can we make a bonfire and burn the sweaters when we’re done?” Petunia inquired.
“Aye,” I answered to cheers from the ungrateful crowd. The disrespect was appalling, but I figured we could make s’mores over the woolen fire.
“What is that smell?” Cupid inquired, wrinkling his nose and gagging.
“Shite,” I shouted. “Shove the plugs in your noses. I scent Bony Velma coming in fast. She’s about three miles out.”
“Oh my gods,” Petunia choked out. “That’s from three miles away?”
“Aye,” Upton said, shoving the green plastic into his nostrils. “Bony Velma is a fine lass, but her aroma is like a pig-perfumed milkmaid.”
“Or a cutlass flappin’ fish stink,” Bonar added.
“Aye, good one,” Upton agreed with a nod. “But methinks that pegged legged salty nards of a sea rat might be a wee bit more accurate.”
“While ye make a fine point,” Bonar said, helping little Neville insert the plugs. “Methinks a thunderin’ bilge rat embedded in a crab-infested dingy-dangler really nails the aroma.”
I agreed with every word the Pirates said even though I didn’t understand much of it.
“I’m here,” Bony Velma announced as she landed on the beach in a cloud of putrid green smoke. “Great sweaters! Do you have one for me, Pappy?”
Shite. I’d forgotten about my odoriferous spawn. I felt horrible. I wasn’t too fond of Velma due to her trying to kill me for a few centuries, but I was trying to be a better father now. The smelly hag had promised not to attempt any more waterborne assassinations and I had made a vow not to mention her hygiene or excessive body hair in public.
So far so good. However, everything could so south fast. A fit from Bony Velma could blow Mystical Isle off the map.
“Darling,” Wally said, giving me a pointed look and then going to greet Velma. “You don’t need one! The green haze that follows you like a noxious, pungent rash is far better than a hideous sweater.”
“Are you sure?” Velma asked as her eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Positive,” Wally gushed to a slightly happier Bony Velma.
“I love you,” I whispered to Wally as I warily watched Velma think through what my mate had just said.
“You have to do the dishes for a year,” Wally informed me under her breath.
“Shite,” I muttered.
“And you have to take me to a Celine Deon concert and six Disney on Ice programs and not bitch,” she added.
“Is that all?” I hissed with an eye roll.
“Nope,” she replied with a grin. “You will come to Couples Jazzercize with me every Tuesday for the next year and you will wear shorts over your diaper so you don’t expose your nards.”
“But my nards are outstanding,” I countered, hoping to win at least part of the negotiation.
Wally simply raised a brow and threateningly wiggled her pinky finger. It made my roger very jolly—too jolly. My Johnson was a bastard. He’d betrayed me yet again. With all the blood in my pecker, I couldn’t even recall what blackmail Wally had insisted upon, so I nodded my head in agreement.
“Aye,” I whispered. “We have a deal.”
“Do you have any clue what I just asked?” Wally inquired, glancing down at my tented diaper with a grin.
“Nay,” I told her with a laugh. “But if it makes you happy, I’ll do it.”
Wally’s laugh was what I lived for and she didn’t disappoint. Shoving me farther behind my blind Clams until my Johnson wound down, she continued to have my back.
“I’ll tell you what, Velma,” Wally said. “After the photo, you can have all of the sweaters and hold a party with the Sea Hags in your cave. What we truly need for a perfect holiday picture is your gamy fumes to give the photo a dreamy and fetid effect.”
“Really?” Bony Velma asked shyly.
“Really,” Wally announced as she carefully hugged Velma without upchucking.
My gal was my hero.
“Okay,” Tallulah grunted as she and her sisters broke up the brawl. “Let’s get this shit over with. My sweater is itchy. Where’s the photographer?”
Mother humpin’ shite monsters. I knew there was something I’d forgotten.
“Umm… the Clams,” I shouted, grabbing the closest faceless mollusk by the scruff of his neck and holding him high above my head. “Clarence shall capture the precious Christmassy moment in time.”
“He has no face,” Pirate Doug pointed out rather unhelpfully.
“Which means he’s blind,” Keith added.
So much for having the two most idiotic men on my side.
Tallulah laughed and pulled on her purple locks. “You forgot to hire a photographer?”
Sighing and letting my head fall to my chest, I began to sniffle. “Aye,” I blubbered. “I did indeed.”
“Not a problem, Pappy,” Bony Velma announced producing a long stick with a clothespin attached to the end of it. “I have a selfie stick!”
“What’s a selfie stick?” I asked.
“You clip a phone to it and we take the picture ourselves,” she replied.
“Outstanding!” I bellowed. “I have now decided that I genuinely like you, Velma.”
“Really?” she squealed with delight.
“She pulled that selfie stick out of her arse. Literally,” Pirate Doug whispered in my ear.
Holding back my bile took great effort. “Umm… mostly. I mostly like you,” I told my rank daughter. “Everyone bunch in
together. Quickly, before anyone heaves. Bony Velma will take the picture. NO ONE touch the selfie stick. It belongs to Velma and I have heard a rumor that it has possibly been residing in her arse. Am I clear?”
The gasps and gags were audible, but thankfully Velma didn’t notice. She was so excited to be in charge it was almost endearing—in a musty, malodorous way.
“Everyone is sick?” Velma inquired as she clipped her cellphone to the stick and raised it high.
“No,” I said. “Why would you think that?”
“All the green boogers in everyone’s noses,” she replied.
“Told you,” Keith said with a laugh as I blasted him with a bolt of lightning.
“Yes, well, it is cold and flu season,” I lied as I picked up the passed-out Keith and threw him over my shoulder.
“We’re gonna have to do it in sections,” Velma announced.
“Unacceptable,” I shouted. “We must all be in the picture together.”
“No can do,” the Sea Hag shot back.
“Just hurry up,” Petunia begged. “It’s awfully funky-reeky right now and I’m not sure how much longer the boogers will hold up. You feel me, Poseidon?”
“Aye,” I said, feeling a little light-headed myself. “I shall simply glue the pieces of the picture together. Problem solved! We will still have our epic Christmas photo. Everyone smile. NOW.”
The picture was horrifying. The boys were bleeding and their pilfered sweaters were torn. I’d forgotten to remove Keith from my shoulder and his arse was front and center. Tallulah and Madison were flipping the camera off and Upton and Bonar had decided that the picture needed a moon—two to be precise. At least their white and somewhat hairy arses would be easy to remove as the two idiot Pirates were on the far-left side.
Wally was laughing like a loon and half of the crew had their eyes closed. Little Neville and Baby Thornycraft, clearly uncomfortable with the plastic in their tiny nostrils, appeared to be picking their noses in the photo.
And the rest of us? We all looked like we were indeed sporting green boogers. Well, all except Bony Velma who was holding the stick that she’d pulled out of her arse.
Whatever. After I’d glued the pieces together, I’d simply borrow some of Neville’s crayons and fix everyone up. I could even draw some fucking breeches onto Upton and Bonar and make the boogers a lovely peach color.
All in all, I believe it turned out excellently.
No one died.
I’d call that a Christmas miracle.
7
Dear Santa, I’ve been a very good boy…
“Shut your pieholes, gentlemen and Pirate Doug. I have incredibly insane news. Everyone must keep it on the down low. I don’t want this getting out to too many people. It could adversely affect us,” I said, glancing around to make sure we were alone.
The moon sat high and majestic in the sky and the stars twinkled, casting a shimmering glow on the ocean. The only sounds to be heard were the waves lapping at the shore… and the bitching of my men.
“Is the island going to be attacked?” Rick asked with concern as his tired eyes popped open in alarm.
“Nay, nay, nay,” I said with a chuckle. “It has come to my attention that there may indeed be a Santa Claus. I just need to know if all of you have been good boys or bad boys this year. Apparently, Santa keeps some kind of bullshite list.”
“Doesn’t stealing electrical appliances put all of us on the bad boy list?” Keith asked.
“Absolutely not,” I huffed, hoping like hell that wasn’t true. “Those vicious human women in obscenely tight, stretchy breeches tried to kill us. We did what was necessary to get the fucking self-cleaning crockpots and live through it. Besides, we weren’t pilfering for ourselves. We were illegally procuring items for others so it doesn’t count.”
“You also stole the Johnson and knocker Christmas sweaters,” Pirate Doug pointed out.
“Had to,” I said. “The store was closed.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” my dolt of a son replied.
“Wait. You woke all of us up in the middle of the damned night and dragged us bodily onto the beach to tell us you believe in Santa Claus?” Cupid growled as he flopped down on a beach lounge and put a towel over his face.
“Where did you find the proof?” Keith asked with a huge yawn.
Of course, it was three in the morning and I had yanked my men from their slumber with their mates. However, I was sure there would be far more excitement about the wonderful news than I was observing.
“The almighty interwebs,” I explained. “I even have an address!”
“Shall we TP Santa’s yard?” Pirate Doug inquired. “I keep a fair amount of arse paper on the ship for cases like this.”
“No, you idiot,” I snapped. “We’re going to send him a letter.”
“Are you drunk?” Pirate Doug inquired, squinting at me.
“Don’t ask ridiculous questions,” I told him. Of course I am.”
“And why are we going to send Santa a letter, Pappy?” Del asked, shoving Cupid off the lounge and taking it for himself.
“To get more presents,” I said.
“Umm… call me crazy, but… ” Rick began.
“Crazy Butt,” I replied.
“Not what I meant,” Rick said.
“But you asked me to call you Crazy Butt,” I told him, confused.
“Nope. I didn’t,” Rick said with an eye roll.
“You did,” I shot back with a bigger eye roll.
“Nope.”
“Yep,” I said.
“This could take all night and I really want to sleep in a bed with Misty,” Cupid griped. “Let Rick get a damned sentence out, old man.”
“As I was saying,” Rick continued with a chuckle. “I think you might be putting a little too much emphasis on the material side of Christmas.”
“Nonsense,” I bellowed. “I’m not giving anyone clothing for Christmas. I don’t know what this material you speak of means. However, no worries. I had considered giving you socks, but I can scrap that plan and go with something plastic.”
“He didn’t get it,” Del said, trying to get comfortable on the lounge.
“Nope,” Cupid agreed with a groan.
“Get what?” I demanded. It was getting quite irritating that all these youngsters thought they knew more than me. I was the God of the Sea for the love of everything fishy.
“What is the meaning of Christmas to you?” Rick asked me.
“Is this a trick question?” I inquired wanting to get the answer correct. Games were so much fun especially when I won.
“Nope,” Rick said. “No tricks.”
“Can I have a hint?” I asked hopefully.
“Nope,” Rick said with a grin. “No hints.”
“Shite,” I mumbled as I began to pace the beach trying to figure out the winning answer.
“Not to worry, Pappy. I shall answer the question,” Pirate Doug announced grandly.
“Do you have to?” Cupid asked, pressing the bridge of his nose as if he was in pain.
“Yes!” Pirate Doug replied.
“Wait,” I yelled. “If he gets the right answer then I get another question. Otherwise, I will be forced to electrocute everyone.”
“Umm… sure,” Rick said with a shake of his head. “Pirate Doug, go ahead. Give it a shot.”
“I’m terrified right now,” Del said with a grin.
“You should be,” Cupid chimed in. “We all should be.”
Pirate Doug cleared his throat three times, pulled a wedgie from the arse of his breeches and then spoke in his outdoor voice. “Chris was a wonderful scoundrel that I happened upon a few centuries ago when I was running for my life due to banging the sister of the woman I was banging at the time—a real messy situation if you follow my drift. Anyhoo, Chris was wanted by the authorities for running a brothel full of nuns. Of course, you can just imagine how that shite went over. Many a good horny man left that brothel in tears after
being castrated by enraged penguins. Poor Chris was simply trying to make a living. The Night of the Holy Tits Carrying Pitchforks was one I will never forget.”
“What the fuck?” Keith muttered, completely confused.
“He said Christmas, not Chris,” Del snapped as he punched his brother in the head and sent him flying.
“My bad,” Pirate Doug grunted as he got to his feet and rejoined the group.
“I think it would be really good if you didn’t talk anymore,” Cupid advised Pirate Doug.
“I can do that,” Pirate Doug replied with a thumbs up.
“Can you? Really?” Del asked.
“No,” Pirate Doug admitted. “Absolutely not.”
“Alrighty then,” Rick said, trying to get the conversation back on track. “Poseidon, what is the meaning of Christmas to you?”
“Black Friday?” I answered.
“Nope,” Rick said.
“Shite,” I muttered and continued to pace the beach. I wondered how many tries I would get before I lost the big showcase. “Phallic Christmas trees?” I tried again.
“May the gods help us all,” Del said with a grunt of laughter.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said quickly, realizing the answer must be incorrect by the confused faces of my men. “Christmas portraits?”
“No,” Rick said, opening up a beach chair and getting comfortable. “This is going to take a while.”
“Can I have as many guesses as I want?”
“Sure,” Rick said. “Although, we’re only sticking around for five more minutes.”
“I’ve got it,” I shouted. “Presents!”
“Nope,” Rick said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I am.”
“Positive?” I inquired.
“Very,” he replied.
One by one my little army of traitors wandered up to the resort and went back to bed. It was horrifying. I couldn’t believe the little shites didn’t want to write a letter to Santa Claus when I’d procured the address of the fat bastard.
And what was this meaning of Christmas crap? Had I missed something?
Whatever, I was going to write to Santa. If I was to believe Rick, presents were not the real meaning of Christmas. However, I didn’t believe Rick at all. He’d clearly misunderstood me. Maybe I should have used the term gift or package. No. A package included a Johnson. The Mermaids had made it abundantly clear that Johnsons were off-limits for Christmas—especially active ones.
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