The Wake

God. The Holidays are so dumb.

I mean, I’d rather have someone tie me to a post with some of that rope that’s all “fucked up and shit” (you know the type) and shock me in the eye with a cattle prod, after – and only after (God help you if it isn’t after) – I’ve been doused with an ionized water solution.

I’d rather have someone take a compact car and, using a lot of investor money, figure out how to make it fly in space. Then, I’d rather have that same compact car come hurtling down from orbit, only to smash me into the ground . . . in Death Valley.

I’d rather have some kind of intelligent monkeys, from one of those labs that piss off all the animal rights people, take a scissors and surgically alter my face so that I look like “one of those dudes who had some kind of intelligent monkeys surgically alter his face and then got totally wasted by the animal rights people for using real, live monkeys.”
I’d rather have a small thermo-nuclear explosion erupt within a 20 mile radius from my current location, giving me a nasty case of mutation, which in turn would allow me to try and make due as a carnie who, later in his freak show days, would end up being trampled by a heard of camels en route to a St. Louis fairground.

I’d rather have a wire coat hanger and a really tall building so that when it’s storming out some night, I can climb to the roof and stand there with my coat hanger trying to be all prophetically “testing the will of the gods” and shit, only to get electrocuted several dozen times before falling off the building; then into a wormhole, where one of those fucked-up giant worms from Beatlejuice eats my brains.

I’d rather have a family of Wisconsinites go all Ed Gein on my ass and make some kind of ensemble out of my skin, and then, while I’m sitting in their garage, waiting for them to finish me off – with my skinless body dangling on a fishhook – someone could douse my body in some highly corrosive acid.

I’d rather have a Q-Tip and a drop of that really hot sauce that middle-aged men keep at home so that people think they’re really tough, so that I could take the toothpick and go rub it in someone’s eye. Then that person would do something really crazy, like call the police, who would Taser me, then police-brutalitize me circa early 1990s style after I call them “filthy pigs.”

Just kidding. Have a happy holiday season…unless you’re the police.

Frederic Hanson is the managing editor of The Wake and can be reached at fhanson@wakenews.org.