Thursday, December 25, 2008

Let It Blow

Christmas is complete. The stockings so carefully hung by the chimney have spilled out goodies galore. And while the kids fight over the controls of their new Wiis, a significantly less innocent scene is taking place up north. Twelve reindeer stand still hitched to their sleigh, just outside of a front door swinging back and forth in the North Pole Wind. For Mr. Claus was still too fucked up to remember that, as his wife nags every night, “This isn’t a barn!” A trail of patent leather boots, socks, a over-sized belt and various red winter gear leads to his bedroom, where Santa lays on his bed, starring at the ceiling, a chest that thuds hard enough to even make his belly shake. An open bottle of Tylenol PM, Xanax and several empty liquor bottles litter the scene. At its center is a cherry red nose caked in slowly hardening snot, mixed with the same white devil that blankets his entire neighborhood. For, my friends, it is my theory that the North Pole is blanketed in not snow, but blow.

Right now you could quite possibly be horrified by this apparent blaspheme of an xmas fable you’ve hung by the chimney of your traditions with care, but I do believe a quick examination of the evidence will have you chiming in with unrelenting agreement, when I call Santa Claus the greatest crackhead of all.

First off, there are obvious points, like “How else could he get around the world in one night?” And if he sees you when you’re sleeping and awake, then clearly he’s up at all hours.

But to really drive this theory home, let’s examine his motives for jumping in the sleigh in the first place. Of course we’d like to all believe it’s the magic of Christmas that inspires Cracky-Claus to grant the wish of every girl and boy. But, please. When else would anyone get the idea to jump off their happy ass and voluntarily trek the entire the world delivering gifts to billions of children with otherwise perfectly capable present-buying parents unless they’re a continent deep in blow? You don’t have to sit through too many teeth chattering sessions until six am to know some pretty stupid ideas get tossed around the mirrored table. This also proves his little green shirted midget cronies are hitting the slopes with him. Because the fateful night Santa’a eyes got all wide with the big idea as he said, “Oh my god, you know what we should do?" only another crackhead would respond by jumping into a toy factory and start building spinning wooden tops.

And then there’s that poem. The one that should be called, ‘Twas the Night on a Bunch of Mutherfuckin’ Blow.

We all know how this one goes, Santa ends up in this rhyming dude’s living room with his reindeer and sack o’ crack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

‘Course he left out the part about dilated pupils, but otherwise the evidence is all over his beard.

”The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.”

Cocaine can also be freebased and smoked in a drug called crack.

”And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!”

Often in literature, poets employ a technique called metaphor. I don’t think it takes a degree in English, to decipher the true meaning lurking in these lines. Plus Santa, at least as modern marketing understands him, is quite the corpulent old soul. One who really should have trouble squeezing himself through a narrow smokestack. But what better way to shed a few emergency pounds that a quick ride on the white horse? It’s all night fuel and a chimney squeezing diet all in one.

And then who could forget some of the poem’s most famous lines of all:

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!”

Is it me or do those eight reindeer sound like they were renamed after the stage full of strippers? And where do cokeheads go when all the bars have closed but they’re not ready to face their angry Mrs. at home? Strip clubs. Sounds like Santa went and named his reindeer after his eight favorite whores of all time. And seeing as Santa hails from a continent covered in nose candy, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume he was a welcome customer.

ho ho ho!

But all Christmas Eves must come to an end. And it’s there we’ll find our Santa back at the north pole after his binge, in the blog’s opening scene, undoubtedly swearing off coke for the rest of his life. And to me, this is the biggest proof of all. Because, mhmmm. Yeah. “This was the last time I swear." I’ve heard that one before. See you next Christmas, crackhead.

oh...and there was this

Thursday, December 18, 2008

I'm Pretty Convinced that Cactuses are People, but Plants

Christopher Walken puts googly eyes on his cactuses.

“Cactuses have pricklers,” he explains. “They can stab you in your hands, in your face. And the only way to know where you stand with someone is by looking into their eyes, right?”

Right is mutherfuckin’ right. I’m on to you, Cactuses. I’m pretty much positive that you are people. Plant people.

Take a gander at the anatomy of your basic cactus:

Look how guilty this guy looks. He's come out with his hands up, like a busted drug dealer on an episode of Cops, Compton. Only instead of crack, this cactus was caught with a lie. A lie about his very existence. His people existence.

According to the most omniscient Wikipedia , Cactuses are spine plants. Hmmmm. Spine plants you say? Sea Sponges don’t have spines. But you know who has spines? Your vertebraed cousin People. Concha Libre may be a giant dumbass, but it doesn’t mean I can’t figure out the most obvious lie of all times stabbing me right in the face.

Take a look at these Cactuses who clearly cannot hide their very human fibers bursting from underneath their pricklers.

What's up, Cactus Club? Yeah, that's right. Get those hands up where we can see 'em.

Do bears have their own motels? Do seahorses? I think not, plantman.

Did somebody forget to hide their valentine from the real humans?

Bush's unfortunate influence on the plant people.

I found the cover of Perfect Ten Cactus Magazine.

What is this, Dance Party USPlantpeople????

What's up, Cactus. Copy the O Christo Redentor Statue much?

Yoda cactus people plant have.

Kids play outside, man. Put some fucking pants on, will you?

The cactus cheerleaders say, "Raa raa ree! We're people, I mean Plants...shit."

Looks like somecactus forgot to take his Valtrex...

I just hope the cactus people are more tolerant of gay parades than California.

Laugh it up, dickhead!

If this isn't proof, I don't know what is.

What are we to do with this news? Since the cactuses aren’t talking back and explaining (believe me, I’ve tried) I’m just going take The Man Who’s Very Scared of Plants’ advice: “A good rule of thumb is, don’t turn your back on a cactus.” Thanks, Christopher Walken. You are my favorite indoor gardener. To this I say, more cactus!

Gotta watch out for those ferns though.



Wednesday, December 17, 2008

keepin' the x in xmas

Maybe it’s because I’m an atheist. Maybe it’s because when I was two my parents gifted me the biggest spoiler of all time: “Concha, there’s no Santa.” Maybe it's because unless they’re on crack, no one is that fucking happy. Joy to the world, my ass. Tis the season for the crappiest noise pollutant of all – Christmas music.

I hate Christmas music. I hate people who don’t hate Christmas music. An oxymoron parading as melody. It’s the same fifty goddamn songs not rocking around the Christmas tree every December, yet not one mistletoe-wielding dickbag ever seems to get sick of them. I thought music by its very nature is supposed to evolve. Rock overthrows Doo Whop. Punk tells Rush to fuck itself. But I seriously start to doubt the whole “music” claim, when the biggest challenge to the genre is Mariah fucking Carey.

Still, for twenty five days (or even longer thanks to modern marketing) I’m supposed to throw out my decent music tastes cultivated by hundreds of hours in record stores, punk shows, fuck even piano lessons, to hear Bing Crosby wish for my streets to fill up with icy, pricey boot ruining, sky dandruff just because it’s fucking December.

What really pisses me off is Xmas music’s unavoidable ubiquity. Most songs I hate are deflected from my iPod by employing a clever technique called not stealing them illegally from the interwebs. But thanks to everybody else’s seasonal bad taste, I get to go shopping and hear That Which I Hate The Most over a visual of screaming children, parents screaming at their children, while store managers try to keep from screaming at the screaming parents and children. Meanwhile I’m trying to push through this mess because I just stopped in the store to pick up some fucking sour cream and I don’t know what the hell you people are bitching about because the last time I checked this was Wallgreens, not Rwanda!

More ear raping below.

Sleigh Ride

“Lovely weather for a sleigh ride together,” my frozen ass. I’ve been on a sleigh ride. Guess what? It’s fucking cold. The constant jingling of bells? Progresses from monotonous, to annoying, to I kinda wanna hurt someone, to oops I killed the Christ Child.

Silent Night

Not if you don’t shut the fuck up, it isn’t.

The Chipmunk Song

Whoever got the idea to inhale a bunch of helium and confuse it with cute, should’ve kept inhaling, and inhaling, until his head exploded. Really, Alvin? You still want a hula hoop? That’s the fucking shittiest gift I’ve ever heard of, unless I can hang you with it.

While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night

Only in Christmas music, is it acceptable to write lyrics about frigid temperatures, sleighs and other shitty forms of transportation, and smelly old men who walk around prodding sheep with staffs. In fact that little hillside scene sounds a lot like a documentary I watched called Zoo. And in Zoo, a bunch of freaks lived together specifically so they could fuck horses. Yeah, good tidings of great bestiality to ya. Say hi to your mother for me.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Like I said, Mom and Dad turned me into a Santa nihilist when I was two, so I know this is a big fat lie. Fuck you, song!

The Twelve Days of Christmas

This sounds like the worst fucking twelve days of anybody’s life. There you are with some normal wish list. Maybe you want a new digital camera, or a gift certificate to Applebees. A week and a half later you got a fucking circus on your hands. Who’s gonna feed all these god damn geese? The ten assholes leaping? And don’t get me started about eight bitches with nipples in their hands. That’s just fucking creepy.

So, you say, I suppose you’ll say you hate Santa now. And baby Jesus too. But that’s just crazy talk. How could I hate something that’s not real?

Really, all Concha wants for Christmas is you to shut the fuck up.

loyal fan club of 8

i am very very sorry i have not blogged in so long. i'm working on a piece about how much i hate xmas music, but i have been very busy shooting a bad commercial and keeping up this drinking habit. right now my brain feels like that last pickle in the pickle jar. i'm pretty sure it smells like a soggy bar wipe but i'm not about to go in and find out. i will finish the new blog soon, because i really fucking hate xmas music. i also think that xmas mart they got goin' on over in union square is pretty crap too. was thinking of profiling that, but it'll have to wait. i'm in LA and taking pictures of it from over here has proven impossible so far.

oh, and now would be a good time to suggest some songs for me to hate on. if you think of some good ones i'll give you a prize.