Merry Jizzmas and Happy Poo Year

I don't even know why you've chosen, on this, the day after Christmas, to look here for some inspirational words, but you're here, so let's get on with this mess. I'm currently riding the coat-tails of a two-day gas station beer hangover, listening to hipster music, and deciding what I can do now with my newly-found-again consumer freedom now that the stores are open once again. Should I go buy more, better beer? Nurse away the sickness with more poison? Or should I steer clear of WalMart and Kroger in fear of wasting the last few days of the year as some robot incapable of staying home on Christmas Eve because I can't drink and watch Trollhunter at the same time?

Maybe I should just try to curl up with my new camera and comfy blanket that I'm somehow dangerously obsessed with. Maybe I should clean my bedroom. I need to do that. But whatever. Where are my manners? I'm supposed to bring some inspiring words to this damp craphole of a blog. So, here...

That's as good as I can do. Jesus is born, so let's eat a fuckload! Ah, that's the American spirit. It's alive and well on this fabulous Boxing Day that no one here celebrates because it's weird and scary.

But you may be asking, "What, pray tell, is Jizzmas?" Oh, haha, let me tell you. Jizzmas is that special time of the year, after the hot cousins go back to Missouri, when your pent-up, unapologetic load can finally be released. It feels good, right? And why does 23-year-old cousin Becky have to wear a mini-skirt for every occasion? Fire off one in the name of the father, the son, and the holy fucking ghost watching you masturbate.

So, as you wind down from the gift high, drink your x-core black coffee with two shots of espresso with hope. Because I'm pretty sure it's gonna be a great new year. And we're all gonna get through it together. I love you. Happy Jizzmas and take an extra-large aspirin on me.