Pre Christmas post post

So….

Christmas is here again and we are all looking like prize stuffed animals hanging from a carnival game tent, and the bar stewards refuse to use a noose for me!

The turkey diners rapidly increasing sweatpants sales and festive jumpers so bright and borderlining dangerously tacky that health warning pamphlets have papered the nation like unwanted snow

You’d be foolishly eluded to the idea that this time of year is all smiling cherubs in sickeningly green elf costumes haunting every corner of the streets, invading with great prejudice all shopping centres, if it weren’t for the morosely decorating singles garnishing street lights with nooses tied with Christmas tree lights.

To say I was one of them would give me great pleasure but that nagging constant otherwise cursed to be known as ‘sense of self-preservation’ signed a lifetime deal with my suffering a long time ago, a damningly worse legal clause is that my depression can’t pull the trigger unless I give in first!

This seasonal depression has as ever grabbed tight the endless flowing misery streams I know to be life, love and a lack of any deeper satisfaction in living, all in all a rival for that equally torturous trio of stress, anxiety and depression. But enough of my troubles, what about yours?!

Now I will have to end this post here, having bleed from the open wounds of my existence the tainting unhappiness that corrupts my dark humour to a deeper pit of whence where the devil did once scrawl the word ‘human’ I now am able to resume normal operations

So stock up on anti-depressants, vodka and remove family members from the room (bloodshed and murder not recommended unless you plan not to get caught!) and prepare for my…

wait….

CHRISTMAS POST

DISCLAMER:

REFERNCES TO SUCICIDE, SELF HARM AND GENERAL LACK OF WILL TO LIVE HAVE YET TO BE ACTED ON, SO SAVE THE HOTLINE NUMBERS AND ‘IT’LL GET BETTER’ STUFF TIL 2017!

NOT THE REAL CHRISTMAS POST, THAT IS YET TO BE POSTED

Christmas Letter 2016 (clean version!)

Dear Santa

    Fuck you… That hourglass figured stripper with noticeable features you said was ‘into me’ turned out to be a cannibal (and you knew it) but I did return the favour and say you were interested in being her Christmas diner but alas I would not be attending, seems I will have a property deal to negotiate in the North Pole (depending on the outcome of the diner). On other counts I must report that this year has been crappy, annoying and somewhat depressing, with a side order of damningly morose at even the lowest failures of a high.

    To concede I must reluctantly (with a capital R so visible from space that a short sighted alien amoeba could see it) that there were some less than miserable failing highs to punctuate an otherwise razor blade tempting year. An event of stature that resounds as a drum in a silent meditation session being the Easter Bunny’s summer bash/drunken excuse to get so pissed a hall of mirrors would appear passable un distorting, your party trick with an elf hat and a candy cane only topped by the arrival of your wife… at least she only kicked you out for two months this time!

    So we warmly arrive to the part of this letter where I spell out my most earnest desires present wise, the above mentioned lady but without a taste for flesh notwithstanding, and so I do begin this fatally short request list by asking for two weeks at a cliff side villa. The next two requests must as ever be taken as unconnected in what could evolve into ‘accidental’ circumstances, referencing a pair of wings and two crates of vodka, in no way an indicating factor to what would really open a cracking elegy!

    The end is nigh for my literary contribution to that sack of fuel you use to cut heating bills, as is my time to contribute to your existence should that stripper find where you live, and so I must wish you the best of seasonal working conditions and a merry (not too drunken) new year. That year little Timmy found a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his socking may be funny, but according to the lawyers very costly, good thing you delivered Cupid (tied up and gagged whilst wearing half a pantomime horse outfit) to a department store by accident, else it really would have been a law suit to remember.

    On another note; I shall never tell Cupid that I found the other half of the outfit in my flat the following day!

Your Friend as ever

Bob Larkin Robertos

PS; You still owe me for last year’s disappearing act from the pub, two rounds of drinks and an apology for asking if you can ‘unwrap like a present on Christmas morning’ the bar maid, on another note; if I don’t get my Christmas wishes I’ll tell your wife what I know