You’ve got to love a holiday named after a wine-swilling, long-haired, no-shoes-wearing carpenter. And there are presents. In honor of the holiday, The Hangover offers our own Christmas list. And in the true spirit of the holiday, it is better to give than receive.
For Terrel Owens: A punch in the mouth. You’d think that Tony Romo or Jason Witten or somebody on that team would have had the balls to tell TO to shut up and then drop him with a right cross. (Is Bum Phillips still alive? Could he take care of this for Wade?)
For the State of Maine: Less Taxes, Better Government. We know, good luck with that one.
For Religous Extremists (be they Christian, Muslim, Pagans, Jews, Sun-Worshippers, Followers of Satan, or actual card carrying members of Red Sox Nation): Less scripture, More action (from their respective deities). Doesn’t fanatical worship sully the very God that it profess to follow? Wouldn’t these various Gods be tired of people acting like complete fucking idiots in their names? Shouldn’t these Gods have had enough of this bullshit and smite their “extreme” followers from the planet? Lightning bolts, now, goddamnit!
For The Boston Celtics: Good Health. The rest will take care of itself.
For Kathryn Tappen: More sweaters of the shade (some sort of yellowish white) that she wore yesterday during the 12/20/08 Bruins-Hurricanes telecast. Amazing. A high-def Goddess if there ever was one.
For Barack Obama: The cajones to swing back to the left after these mandatory first two years of centrism.
For Kennebunkport: Less Development. Do we have to turn every open space not owned by the Conservation Trust into either a neighborhood of McMansions or a psuedo-tony resort?
For the Red Sox Marketing Team: A long, long, long vacation. Two years ought to be enough. We don’t need any hats with socks on them. We could use a better ticket-buying site, however. Or at least one that doesn’t have to blame its lack of functionality on “high transaction volume.” What with the exciting new hats, you didn’t think people would want to buy tickets, too?
For the Red Sox: Derek Lowe. Give us a great pitcher who excels in big games, under pressure, and who wants to play here. And we’ll take a refurbished Mike Lowell, too. The hell with Mark Teixeira. The only thing he’s led the league in is “Speculative news media stories on where Mark Texiera will land.” Pitching wins and Lowe is a winning pitcher.
For News Editors of Television Weather Reports: A grip. Hangover Headquarters is in Maine. It snows here. It always has. Every time a flake hits the atmosphere, we don’t need panicked, poker-up-the-ass anchor people screaming “storm warning,” “winter storm watch,” or “extreme weather event.” If you want people to watch your insipid newscasts, try doing some actual reporting, or get better looking newspeople and have the women go topless and dress the men in Chippendale’s outfits.
For the Rolling Stones: One last great album. I don’t mean pretty good, either. Voodoo Lounge was compared to Exile, but we all know Exile, and Voodoo Lounge is no Exile. Every Stones album since Steel Wheels has been proclaimed in one way or another, hearkening back to the heyday of the Stones. Simply not true. The world could use another Exile on Main Street or Sticky Fingers. Get on it, boys.
For the Readers of The Hangover: Less hangovers, of the alcohol-induced head ache and vomiting kind.
For The Hangover: More readers. Then I can start pimping out the ad space and earn enough money to quit one of my days jobs. Then I could completely sell out and turn into one of those despicable, loathsome individuals that I despise. Wouldn’t that be grist for some interesting writing?