I saw my first Xmas commercial yesterday. Heineken of all things.
So here's possibly the first entry anywhere about Christmas.
This is the 12 days of Christmas (yes I said Christmas, not the Holiday season, fuckin' whiners, HO HO HO) according to Christopher Walken.
The First DayThe partridge, the pear tree. I trust both have arrived safely on this First Day of
Christmas. The partridge, unfortunately, required mounting for shipping. Taxidermy. I had to strangle the poor bird with my own two hands. Sometimes small cruelties must be tolerated for the greater holiday good—in this case, pears.
The Second DayMay the two beautiful turtle doves, enclosed, enliven your Second Day of
Christmas. I have recorded their mournful songs on a compact disc, also enclosed, so you will understand why I found it necessary to smother them. These birds—these birds could drive you fucking crazy.
The Third DayThe three French hens have been prepared and dressed for oven or broiler, as you will. But the holiday fun does not stop there, my friend. I have removed the heads myself. With an axe. And I have decorated them, festively, as Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus. Please, enjoy.
The Fourth DayFourth Day. Four calling birds. Listen. Are they calling? No. But the silence is, in its own way, a kind of
Christmas.
The Fifth DayI have taken special care to select the five golden rings, enclosed, because I know you treasure the better things in life. Four are from the world's finest jewelers. The fifth was my grandfather's. It is of special sentimental value to me, because I had to exhume his corpse to retrieve it. An unfortunate bureaucratic slipup, by an unfortunate fucking bureaucrat.
The Sixth DayOn this Sixth Day of Christmas, six geese sit a-laying on your front lawn. Eggs. I have always admired these elegant, graceful white waterfowl. It saddens me that the hatchlings will not emerge before I send workmen to burn the nests.
The Seventh DayOn the Seventh Day, God rested. But the seven swans presently a-swimming in your pool do not rest. They will not climb out of the water, nor will they stop moving. Why? Because the lead weights I have tied to their legs, the amphetamines in their feed, assure you of a full day of
Christmas entertainment.
The Eighth DayThe small American dairy farm has, tragically, disappeared forever. Therefore, most of the eight maids a-milking appear courtesy of the good people at La Leche League, to whom I have made a generous donation in your name. For the remainder, I have called in a personal favor from the publisher of Lactating Mamas magazine. Distasteful. But it is, after all,
Christmas.
The Ninth DayNine. Ladies, Dancing. Nine sterling examples, one might think, of the female form in motion. But who is that tall, strikingly handsome woman in green? It is I, Christopher
Walken. In Peter Pan drag.
The Tenth DayOn this, the Tenth Day of our
Christmas adventure, the ten lords a-leaping represent every walk of American street life. The gambler, the bookmaker, the dealer and the junkie. The ambitious gangster, the implacable crime lord, and the common thug. The crooked cop, the arsonist, and the con man. Their nimble hops, always one step ahead of Johnny Law, are what the season is all about. Merry
Christmas.
The Eleventh DayEleventh Day. Eleven pipers. Piping. Not a-piping, mind you. But piping hot. Like soul-searing New Orleans jazz. Like a boiling glass of absinthe. Like me. Happy Holidays.
The Twelfth DayOn this Twelfth Day, I am filled with ennui. Twelve drummers, merely drumming; too easy, perhaps. Which is why I have, at great personal risk, imported drums made from human skin. They produce a sound like no other; the sound of a tiny bamboo cage in a fetid jungle prison, where hope dies anew with each cruel dawn. It's the sound of pain, frustration and disappointment. The sound of
Christmas.
