Friday, December 19, 2008

Last Christmas Home

She said she didn’t want anything for Christmas and got pearls. From Santa, it said. Son of a bitch, I thought. He’d been coming around, even in hot weather. To see him in shorts would make you sick.
Everyone thought it was so great, especially for the kids. Hell, I even got some stuff I really liked. “Looks good on you chief,” he’d say. The decorations never came down at our place.
She was happiest of all. It was her favorite time of the year. She was excited and couldn’t sleep, just like a little kid. She kept two lists all year long: one of things she wanted, the other of naughty things she had done. Honestly they were both pretty ludicrous. She had the sweetest pair of eyes you ever saw under a stocking cap. I loved her so.
I don’t know why he picked on her when the whole world loved him. At first she wouldn’t do it on Christmas Eve, then the week before. Pretty soon all December was dry. Thing was, when she finally went downstairs that morning, she’d be soaking wet.

You’ve been a good little boy, haven’t you?”
I tried to smile, but it smarted to have him call me that in front of my son.
Well, look what Santa brung for you!”
It was a jet ski. Huge and purple with yellow lightning bolts.
My wife squealed and jumped up and down like she had won on a fucking game show.
We could never afford one of these, not after a million paychecks. I wanted to pick it up and crush him with it.
There was a pause. Santa clearly wanted to give my wife his gift.
Why don’ you and the kids try on your helmets an’ life jackets?”
The kids thought it was a great idea. I glared at him.
They gonna need some help, opening the packages, son.”
This was true. There were so many packages. I picked up a box cutter and went with the kids.
In the corner of my eye, my wife beamed at Santa, curled on his breast. She was so trusting. She glittered like an ornament on his branch.

Sometimes Santa tells me, “Your wife is very special. You have no idea. I know these things. It’s my job. She has a pure heart, as pure as when she was a little girl.”
Fucker. “And how’s Mrs. Claus?” I ask him.

Things I came to hate about Santa:

1. His fame, obviously
2. His power
3. The fact that everybody loves him and nobody questions him
4. His exotic looks
5. His easy laugh
6. The way my kids thinks he knows everything
7. His fancy private education
8. His private jet
9. His private train
10. His wearing Paco Rabanne

I’m not trying to ruin Christmas, I’m just saying that this year it could be just a family thing”
What are you talking about?”
I mean, it could, just be me and you and the kids”
But what about the presents? Who will bring the presents?”
I’ll take care of the presents”
What? Are you going to buy them in a store?”
I could totally do that, I get a bonus at the end of the year. I could buy you something nice, whatever you wanted”
But that’s just like you buying me something. I’d know what it was”
You wouldn’t have to know. I could hide it.”
Where? In the house? That’s completely crazy. I don’t want something you bought me from a store that’s been hiding in our house for over a month. I want a Christmas gift.”
Listen to me: Christmas is a time for families to be together. I’m the father. I can provide for this family. We don’t need…”
What are we going to tell the kids?”
I don’t know. We could tell them not to come out until he’s gone. Or I could dress up…”
That’s insane, you’re insane! You’re so crazy! Why are you doing this?! It’s Christmas! Why are you doing this to Christmas?! It’s so wrong!”
She would not stop crying and crying.
I had hoped to compromise, but I had hurt her in a way I could not have imagined.

The kids took it better. They had known something was up. I know they felt responsible somehow. “Should we put decorations up?” they asked. “Of course,” I said, “it’s still Christmas.” “Oh right,” they said. “Help your mother,” I suggested. Their mother was just sitting there. I had never seen her so unhappy in my entire life. She seemed appalled every time she looked at an ornament or a piece of mistletoe. She went back to the bedroom a lot, to cry and sulk.
On the big day it took a lot of coaxing to get her out. She looked dazed and ill. My son did the best he could to act excited with his gift. I think I may have gotten the wrong size for him. My little girl tore the wrapper off hers noted what it was and sort of excused herself from it without saying a word. I put on some Christmas music. “Don’t,” my wife said. I turned it off. I went and got her gift. She did not react. I put it in her hands. She looked at me, dazed. Very mechanically she began to unwrap it. I had wrapped it myself. She removed the duct tape with difficulty.
It was the most money I had ever spent on one thing. Fortunately, it was also practical. She looked at me. Her lips trembled with effort. “Thank you,” she said. She hugged me. The hug felt like an apology. She asked if it was okay if she rested a little. I said, of course. She padded away. I tried to watch football but just stared at the screen.
The whole house was quiet, in quiet sort of way that eats at your ears. I had to get out of there, so I took my car. It was icy, but there were no cars anywhere. The whole world was quiet. I looked at all the houses with the cars out front and the chimney lit. I thought of all the other fathers and their kids, putting toy trains and home entertainment systems together, moms looking on, their eyes as soft as their sweaters. I drove a long way, out to the highway, without meaning to.
When I got back home, Christmas had awoken. Warm air and music hit my face. Clattering sounds and the smell of melting butter came from the kitchen: my daughter was helping my wife, asking little questions: is it ready? Not yet, honey. I just stood there in the doorway, warming up. My wife sashayed out to see me. She gave me the most tender, most moist loving look that transcended all apology. She wrapped herself around me, curved into me. As one, we walked into the kitchen. My little girl hugged my legs. This was Christmas, I thought. I had never been so grateful for everything, everything I had. Everything that was or could be. I held her a long time, while pots steamed. She had to tear herself away for the sake of the chestnuts. Our hands stayed linked, as though in a dance.
My son flew into the other room. In his hand, he piloted a new brilliant sleek starship: it’s engines roared and glowed. Near him, my little girl played hide and seek with a little tan stuffed bear. She made the bear peek-a-boo with me, too. He was a cute little fellow with dark considerate eyes. He was wearing a wristwatch. That was odd, I thought. It was a nice, if conservative wristwatch. She made the bear check the time. “Where did he come from?” I asked. “Santa brought him,” she said.
I felt cold, then hot.  I walked into the kitchen. My wife flew among the pans with alacrity. When she turned she had a cute little bit of flour on her cheek and hair. I loved her so. Around her beautiful neck, nestling between her collarbones, I saw it. It was then I realized that she had gotten changed.

I did not get drunk at the strip club, that is, I did not feel a single drink go in me. I didn’t feel anything for the girls, so it’s surprising that they threw me out. I slept in my car, which is good, I guess, or not so good, because I threw up more than once.

My wife was very gentle, and tender. Some this, I am sorry to say, was fear. She took the vomit stained clothes without a word. She had cleaned up all the wreckage at home. She put me to bed and kissed me on the forehead. “Get some rest,” she said. Tenderly. And then: “I love you.” Sadly.

I didn’t do anything but lie there for the next couple of days. Reconciliation was easy, everyone was concerned for me. My wife held on to me like she had held on to our son when he had broken his leg. That night, she got on top of me, deliberately. I came softly. She kissed my neck and told me how much she loved me. She talked and talked and cried and apologized, over and over. I said I was sorry too. I said not to worry, that next year Christmas would be like it always was. A pealing note of joy rang out of her. She grinned with her whole body. She ran over me, over and over with little kisses everywhere, each kiss saying: thankyou thankyou. I loved her so. I loved my family. It was my family. I was not going to let them be taken from me by anyone.

I counted the days to this Christmas. I made a list. My enthusiasm was genuine. I loved shopping. I got everything we needed: a new set of lights, a real wreath, milk, cookies, candy canes, duct tape, egg nog, rum, cloves, cable ties, figgy pudding, a yule log, cheese ball, chestnuts, stuffing, fresh cranberries, melon baller, wire cutters, wire.

When I leveled the 12 gauge at Santa, I realized it was not the first time for him. He was very cool about it. He was right. I didn’t want to do this. He was Santa. He was Christmas. I, too, had loved him as a child. I had written him letters. I had sat in his lap. My will and the sights wavered for a second. This was crazy. Then I remembered what Santa had done to me, done to my family, to my wife. I held that in focus. This made me able to do what was necessary.

As my cock slid out of Santa’s mouth, I was amazed I was still hard. I had shot several times into Santa’s face and mouth, but I was still so hard it hurt. I had wanted my wife to watch, but she wasn’t watching. She just cried, and cried and begged and said the same thing, over and over. I looked down at Santa. He was still trying to play this whole thing out as a jolly old elf. I had to admire that, but he had no idea what was coming. I felt drunk, but I knew it could not be the eggnog, because I hadn’t drunk much. Santa’s breath felt hot against my balls. The air felt hot like the house was on fire. I wanted this moment to go on forever. I mean, I had Santa. I had all the fucking toys in the world sitting on top of my house. Flying reindeer pawed impatiently on shingles I had bought from Home Depot. I had what I wanted; I wasn’t going to stop until I was finished.

Afterwards, I wanted to let the kids out of their rooms, but I knew that was a bad idea. I wanted to say goodbye. More importantly, I wanted them to see what their father had become. I glittered, I glowed: like a Christmas tree. I felt cool and wet all over. I crawled over to my wife. I lifted her damp head and kissed her so tenderly. I loved her, but I loved everyone now. I told her this. What I said was: “I am Christmas. I am Christmas, now.” Her breathing was shallow and irregular. I cut her free and tried to make her comfortable.

The fur felt good over my naked wet skin. It smelled like him. The sack was heavy but the burden was mine. It was late. I had places to go. So many houses, so many homes and families waiting this night, their faces bright on their pillows.

Merry Christmas to all” I cried, “and all a good night!

Monday, December 15, 2008

Tom Ronca's Xmas

Illustration from "Santa vs Gaira-Hint: Santa Does Not Win And Is Eaten Along With His Elves" by Tom Ronca

To love Tom Ronca is to love the creature that destroyed your village, then to realize that it was you who created the monster, but not the monster's bride, which you then resolve to create, but don't necessarily get around to it until you are older and a little more focused and settled down with a steady income, but then you finally make the monster's bride and it doesn't really work out, for a lot of reasons, but you tried and in the end you end up spending more time with the monster's bride than the monster (for a lot of reasons), until one night you're watching Frankenhooker together and it just feels right and the next day you realize you've made a terrible mistake, because what are you going to say to the monster now? Then you ask yourself if you're the real monster, because you have, after all, just made it with the monster's bride, but then you look at yourself in the mirror have a good long look with natural, not florescent, lighting, and you think, no, the monster is probably the monster, though maybe you will lose the 'tasche now that Brad Pitt is doing it. So it's a nice day and you do for drive and you try that new healthy place and you realize you don't really want to be that healthy and you pretty much dump the monster's bride, too, after a couple of weeks because, after all, it's really fricking weird having made her and everything, and so she ends up taking this really dumb job that she hates, like, to spite you or something, and dating this Indian doctor who's actually kind of a jerk and so you drink too much at their Christmas party and drop things, catered things, into their infinity pool because since when do Indians and monsters celebrate Christmas together anyway, and this you really do do, just to spite them and you do a bunch of other stuff and it ends up with you being called a racist and totally ruining your pants falling down a steep hill and it's then, it's then that you see the monster, staggering out of the flames of their shattered place, brave, triumphant, unstoppable and it's then that you call to him, like a father, to carry you to your car.

Monday, December 8, 2008


He asked them for a real love potion. He had wanted her forever: stuck-up bitch. She looked at him differently. He had a room reserved. He wanted to make her do things but couldn’t get hard. She wouldn’t stop kissing him anyway.

She called every hour: I feel crazy; I must see you. You gave her too much, they said. Every day she found a new reason to love him: he thought: bullshit. Their spouses left. She gave up everything; he came prematurely. She would stay outside his door all night. When she killed herself, he thought: what a rip-off.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

The Turkey Within

For those of you who have not had the pleasure of dining with me, I am, in addition to being a charming and dashing dinner companion, by universal account, also a wonderful cook. In fact, around this time of year, family and friends, wives and mistresses often ask me “what is it that makes your turkey so perfect?” and “why is my cranberry sauce so inferior, why am I unhappy?” and “is this pumpkin pie –or a god?”

I can only answer them simply and trivially with the words I learned from my master: perfection comes from within.

My master himself learned this from something on a tea box. The tea box itself already came enlightened for that was its name, “Enlightenment Tea”

The secret to a perfect turkey every time, without effort, stress or worry is to remember that the turkey is the picture of the human soul, your human soul. The turkey is you.

The Occult and Hidden Origins of Thanksgiving

As we all know, Thanksgiving comes from the Indians, that is, the ancient doctrines of esoteric Indian ascetics that were taught to the Pilgrims –themselves self-denying seekers after purity, to consecrate the inevitable destruction, consumption and mutilation of a pure and prior state of consciousness, namely the Americas.

This is the true meaning of Thanksgiving: it is a harvest festival, a time celebrating the appropriate time for destruction and consumption, acknowledging that all things are subject to change and decay, that all things are consumed, like breath, and that all things are, as Heraclitus observed, exchange for fire.

Your Turkey and Self-Understanding: The Science of Turkey Reading

It is from this esoteric tradition that we get the occult science of turkey reading.

The turkey is oneself, the picture of what we will, for the sake of convenience, call one’s “soul,” the great bird within all of us that seeks to take flight. Every year we carefully prepare and offer our turkey dinner, that is our very soul or self, as a sacrament and sacrifice to those who love us, our family and friends; because of this, it can truly be said that how our turkey and fixings come out is a great indicator of our true spiritual condition.

Undercooked Turkey
For instance, if your turkey is cold, hard or frozen on the inside, this is a good sign that you may have trouble with procrastination and are afflicted with sloth, topor or depression. The center of your turkey remains cold and gelid, because your mind also remains unprepared and frozen.

To counteract this, begin the training and preparation of your mind and turkey as early as possible. You and your turkey must leave bed and refrigerator early, without hesitation, so as to better thaw out properly.

Let the acts of proper concentration and right mindfulness be the rosy dawn that breaks early within the oven, preheating it. You will then find the emptiness of the oven, the emptiness within you, warm and receptive.

Dry Turkey
A dry turkey is indicative of an overheated character overtaken by wrath, anger or otherwise unaware or failing in mindfulness.

The antidote to this kind of character is meditation on loving kindness, or metta, in the form of regular and generous basting. If your turkey or soul is naturally too dry, you may add broth or butter, but be careful not to overdo it, as there is nothing quite as nauseating as a soul or turkey that is too oily and unctuous. Be sure to add lots of herbs and seasonings to the basting, so as not to wash away all the flavor in the process.

Late Turkey
If your turkey soul comes out later than it should, vexing guests and loved ones, this may be because you check the oven too often, losing valuable time and heat energy. If this is the case, you may suffer from doubt and anxiety, a form of intellectual restlessness that destroys its object by checking on it too often.

The best therapy for this kind of turkey related failing is as follows:
  • Turn the oven light on; observe the turkey in great detail and how it is doing.
  • Then turn the oven light off and continue to visualize the turkey.
  • Place the mental image of the turkey, not in the oven in the wall, but in the empty space within your abdomen, two finger lengths above your navel.
  • Focus on this mental image, keep the turkey inside of you and your turkey will always be ready, aware and awakened at the proper time, perfect and juicy without stress or worry.
When the turkey is ready, you will simply know.


Individuals who cook their stuffing inside the turkeys have a fear of nothingness and nonbeing when what they actually should fear is salmonella. They attempt to counter this fear of nothingness and nonbeing with breadcrumbs and walnuts, but the results are often soggy and undercooked.

The enlightened way to prepare stuffing is to prepare and bake it separately.

To be enlightened is to realize that this seemingly auxiliary and accessory dish is actually the most important and most beautiful part of Thanksgiving. It is designed to fill a hole that it never actually fills; it is the supplement, that, as Derrida observes, is actually central to the whole, and because it is so critical it is totally unnecessary and full of excess carbs.

And so to be enlightened is to give away this precious stuffing that is not stuffed with the seriousness of Prince Gautama giving away his wife.


Those who focus excessively on dessert are afflicted with sensuality or what Aristotle called an appetitic personality.

For such individuals, it is recommended that they meditate upon a rotting pumpkin for thirty days to perceive the loathsomeness in all food and the nature of decay. For this purpose, the Halloween jack-o’-lantern should be retained.

If you Eating Tofurkey Or Turkey At Shelter

Those eating Tofurkey or receiving their turkey through alms are already Enlightened;
Tofurkey eaters have no attachment to the pleasure of eating and eat to sustain themselves only.

They have realized that the Turkey is the self; there is no actual turkey; there is no actual self.

Just as a wheel is defined and organized by the empty space for the axle, or the donmut by the hole that prevents it from being a mere beignet or Berliner, the turkey is defined by the empty cavity within it: it is created, organized and made real by the non-being it contains.

This emptiness that is the turkey, is, in turn is placed within another emptiness, the oven; this placing of an emptiness inside another emptiness represents the mind and the universe, which are both empty and infinite for 3 hours at 450 degrees or for all time with no heat, no light and no motion

In Conclusion

“What is the nature of Thanksgiving?” you may well ask. The nature of Thanksgiving is leftovers.

The turkey, like all things that are, is destroyed and consumed. Yet the things that compose the turkey, its component matter and energy cannot be destroyed or consumed, only change their state and organization.

They live on, through the law of Karma, in form of turkey sandwiches, turkey soup, turkey casserole, and so on, until one realizes that it is one’s attachment to the illusion of self-turkey that propels its endless iterations and binds us to the realm of Being.

May your Thanksgiving be well and happy, and free from suffering, attachment and delusion

Monday, November 24, 2008


Tabitha told Shelly she put poison in the dinner. They giggled. They were called to the table. Everyone ate and drank a lot, especially Uncle who had to drive so far. Auntie got a bad stomachache. Shelly looked at Tabitha. Uncle started yelling at Poppa: Poppa had had enough, too. Somehow money came up. Now Mom felt sick. When Uncle came back from his truck, he had his gun. He demanded the antidote. Mom said he was crazy. Poppa told him to go fuck himself. But there’s no poison, no poison at all, Tabitha told the officer. She died last.

Happy Thanksgiving Everybody! (does not count toward word total)

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

The Even Newer, Even Lazier Method



I was working on a pornographic movie

when suddenly things just went way too far

It turns out, the whole thing was an experiment run by some robot from another planet sent to observe

The problem was, he had started drinking

somewhat heavily

I knew at once what to do. I left for the airport.

And flew to Nashville to start my singing career.

It met with a really mixed reception

You can still hear some of my stuff on corporate radio.

I don't really care, though.

and the robot?

I suppose he went home

to his planet