A Communist Christmas

Sometimes I just have a way with words. Not necessarily a good way. But a way none-the-less. For example, a few weeks ago a girl asked me when the last time I had sex was. Without blinking I replied, “Wait—consensual, or non? Because I may have never had consensual sex in my life.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, more than a little shocked.

“All my sex is nonconsensual. Even masturbation. Just last night I molested myself. I said I wasn’t in the mood, but deep down, I knew I wanted it.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Maybe I should buy my cock a rape-whistle.”

On that note, with the holidays fast approaching, I was thinking of potential gifts to buy for people. Maybe that’s what I should buy for the various women in my life. Nothing says “I love you” like a rape-whistle. It’s thoughtful, practical, and the over-powering smell of their own fear will remind them of me.

Then again, I have been wrong before. I learned some valuable lessons about giving pepper-spray to women last year.

1. One squirt does not send my refried beans “South of The Boarder.” “Incapacitating” does not equal “delicious.”
2. Don’t give a girl a weapon she can use on you when you break up. Stupid poetic justice.

It’s not that I don’t care about my friends—I just don’t care enough to buy them individualized gifts. I mean, the Death Star mall near my house is absolutely unapproachable this time of year. I’m praying that I’ll be able to take one day off of work and get all my shopping done in one fell swoop—but deep down I know that’s not realistic. I’m going to forget someone and then they’ll send me a card and a gift, meaning my only recourse is to go to the mall AGAIN. And each time I enter that place, I die a little inside.

Last year, I made a New Year’s resolution to be less charming so I’d have fewer friends to buy gifts for this Christmas. A quick scan of my list suggests that I’ve failed miserably. I almost had a nervous breakdown last year: I’m not even joking. I flipped out and wrote a Kwanza Card rant against White Jesus…Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me? The good news is that in retrospect I realize that it was a bit immature. This year I've composed a much better card for coping with my Holiday stress. It’ll just be a blank, white postcard with no pictures or return address. Instead, typed in simple black letters, this heart-warming holiday greeting will appear:

Someone you slept with has been diagnosed with AIDS.

Festive.

Seriously, the only chance I have of avoiding a holiday rampage of biblical proportions is to mass-shop. In that vein, it occurs to me that I should make it a themed holiday: A Communist Christmas. “All people are equal brother! Only capitalist dogs buy individual gifts.”

So my ideas for “mass gifting” are currently:

• Soviet berets
• Vodka
• Life-Size wax replicas of Lenin’s corpse
• Iron Curtains
• A card redeemable for one KGB style “disappearing” of a family member, co-worker, or ex of your choice.
• Temporary Gorbichav “head-stain” tattoos
• Vacations to a Siberian “camp.” Said get-away features “enthusiastic instructors,” “lots of outdoor activity,” mass-graves, and free gruel! Participation is mandatory.