Sex machines and true friendship Ah, ode to joy, the holidaze are amongst us again! Yes, and isn’t it all just too faboo — peppermint bark, cellophane snow, pardoned turkeys, Pocahontas and pilgrims sipping pumpkin-pie-spiced lattes, candy canes the size of prosthetic limbs, cannabis-laced gingerbread nutcrackers!
It is a season of such spiked derangement, one only wishes for a warm bath in which to drift away, enchantedly, into Santa-red, spruce-scented oblivion.
I’m sure the only thing anybody truly prays for during this season of lunatic giving is but to come out on the other side of Jan.
1 still capable of standing naked, unassisted atop the bathroom scales, exhaling a warning nod over towards sleeping, sweet baby Jesus in his manger: “OK, kid, understand me loud and clear.