Marley was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. And then all of them had a bizarre foursome using candlesticks and eggnog in ways that were never intended by Hallmark and Bordon's. And that is why they will never air Ebeneezer Spooge, a perverted Christmas tale ever ever ever. But that's the thing around the holidays. Old stories, "fresh" takes. And I suppose that's what this is. So gather round all ye children and listen to my "all in one giant friggen paragraph" version of A Christmas Carol.
On the eve of Christmas, after consuming some 2 pounds of turkey sausage and peach salsa, spirits visited me as many times as I visited the bathroom. Four to be exact. The twists and turns in my stomach felt like a complete season of NASCAR only not as painful. I can only assume that the visions I had were due to the fevers and chills that washed over me all night, but they were all too real. On my first trip from the toilet back to the bed, I saw an eerie green light and a tendril of smoke coming from the living room. As I cautiously made my way to see what it was, I was overwhelmed by the smell of marijuana. And good shit too. My shit. There on the couch was Bob Marley. He looked just like I remembered someone who I have never met would look. Tie dye shirt, long dreads, cut off jean shorts, sandals, and sunglasses. He told me I would be visited by three spirits, did not laugh when I asked if one would be Bacardi, ate the entire thing of Godiva peppermint bark I had bought for my girlfriend, and vanished into heavily smokey air. "Poppy cock" I said out loud temporarily being possessed by Frank Capra. And back to bed I went. The bell for round two clanged in my stomach and off to the bathroom I went. Upon my return I realized I was not alone. And not in the , we are all connected Cloud Atlas group hug way, but in the, there is someone on my bed who wasn't there when I left to empty my insides way. "I am the ghost of Christmas past", she spoke in a thick Russian accent. "I also hope you validate parking". She must have been 20 feet tall if she was a foot, and her hair was made entirely of smoke. She wore a gown that was form fitting. Unfortunately her form was that of an elephant orgy, with lumps and bumps that made no sense. "I know the drill"< I said. "You are to whisk me away to some Christmas past far removed from here spirit, so I can learn a valuable lesson or some such". "Um. No,. Everything's done on Youtube these days", she said taking out a new Samsung Note 10.1 tablet, the finest tablet available in the world. (Looking for sponsorship here) As she pressed play I was whisked back to 1983. A young 11 year old Rory is sitting around a Christmas tree in his Transformers pajamas,eating a bowl of C3PO's, watching A Christmas Story for the first time before TNT gave it it's own network and Broadway somehow raped it into a musical. "Spirit, I remember this Christmas. Because I was there. This is absolutely pointless," I told her. "Wait for it dahlink" she said. And I did. And then it happened. A giant whirling gear hovered over the entire living room, spinning, spiraling and eventually freezing, only to start spinning again. "Sorry," the spirit said, "buffering". Eventually the scene started again but it had skipped a great deal. The tree had been burned to the ground, the television melted, and little 11 year old Rory was now wearing a 1930's flapper outfit and was on top of a poker table surrounded by the cast of the Deer Hunter. Then we were back. I was in my bathroom hunched over dry heaving and the Russian spirit was gone. As I dragged myself back to my bed to hopefully collapse and sleep until the new season of Community started, the second spirit arrived. There was a knock at the door. I forced myself to answer it and slowly opened it. There was a small gnomish man, barely a foot tall holding a giant mirror. "Look inside", he squeaked. I did as he asked. " I see nothing but myself looking back at me spirit," I said. "No shit, it's a mirror," he yelled back. And then he smashed it on the ground, said what the fuck did I expect from the ghost of Christmas present, and ran away. Shaken and confused like a baby that doesn't listen, i went to the bathroom for what was hopefully the final time. But, the room was hot and steamy. Someone was in the shower. I crept ever closer to the curtain, trembling, unsure of what I would find if I dare pull it back. With one hand on the curtain, and one wrapped around a toilet brush, I did just that. A shriek like a dolphin being bludgeoned to death with a clown horn rang out in the apartment. Under the cascading water was death itself. A skeleton with black piercing holes in it's skull where its eyes once were glared back at me clutching a bottle of shampoo. "It says will maintain a full healthy body! Here's hoping!" it exclaimed dumping the entire bottle over itself. "Are you here to show me my future?" I asked timidly. "Sure am. Let me towel off, exfoliate, and we can get going," he said. After what seemed like an eternity, the ghost of Christmas future grabbed my hand and we lept out of the window flying high over the city of New York, past the Empire State Building, past Bryant Park, past Washington Square, past the Empire State Building...again. " Are we lost spirit?", I asked. "No, I ...uh, I thought I saw someone I knew back there. Ah here we are" We landed in Brooklyn at the Greenwood Cemetery. A shallow grave was slowly being filled by two men. The snow was coming down in a flurry of white. "Spirit. Please tell me. Who is in that grave?", I pleaded. But the spirit said nothing. He merely pointed to the stone at the front of the grave. "This one shan't be missed too right too right I am", said the first grave digger. " Why the fuck are you talking like that, you're from Hackensack?" the second man said. "Spirit please, who is in this grave?" I begged again. And then, the two men got up, unblocking my view. And there, on the gravestone read a name. Here lies Mario Lopez. "Spirit, I don't understand." "Well I thought you'd get a kick out of it. His work is terrible", death said. As we returned home I couldn't sleep. It was now 7 in the morning. I ran to my window and threw it open, breaking the glass in the process as I live on the tenth floor and the windows aren't supposed to open. "You there pigeon," I yelled...at a pigeon. "What day is it?" The pigeon did not reply. "Then I haven't missed it! I haven't missed Christmas!" I screamed! I ran to my fridge, opened a beer, smoked a bowl and went back to sleep for 7 hours until the Knicks game was on. I watched it on my new Samsung 62 inch Smart TV. Now that's a damn fine picture. Happy New year!
Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account. ~Oscar Wilde
"Fuck Ryan Seacrest"---Dick Clark