Good Morning Yule Logs,
Being Christmas Eve I thought it appropriate to dredge up one of the ‘Diatribe’s’ classic holiday storys. If you’re like me I well up every time I read Dv’ant’s heart-felt experience. MERRY CHRISTMAS and enjoy Dv’ant’s Vile Christmas:
Never moon a werewolf.” — Mike Binder
In so far as being a sick SOB I come by it naturally, you see I am from Chicago.
You know what a bunch of Sick SOB’s live in and around the windy city.
The rest of the country may think it has that name because of the wind off the lake, but you and I both know that it’s from the emissions from both ends of the citizens of Cook County.
A few days before Christmas a non descript fellow in a rubber Santa Claus mask, with white hair and flowing beard wanders in to Diamond Lils. This obviously presents some problems whilst eating and drinking, Wineglasses proved more problematic, he found the solution in drinking from the bottle.
Many beers, and a bottle and a half of wine later you begin to fear the worst, and a few seconds later those fears were confirmed. He stands bolt upright; drinks long from the bottle and then freezes. A hiccup is it? No, a burp – oh no – gag reflex, things were looking bad. Then the bar hushed conversations stopped and all eyes moved round to this lumbering fat fool in an overly tight Santa mask with a bottle of wine rammed in his mouth. He fell forward, but only from the waist and was now bent double across the table, the wine bottle supporting his head.
What feels like an eternity passes with him statue-like. Another gag, Suddenly a torrent of vomit spews forth, but all contained within the almost- empty wine bottle. The level goes from empty to full within the blink of an eye. Vile looking objects swam in putrid juices, the candles on the table making it glow like the lava lamp from hell. The bar patrons begin to laugh, but they laugh too soon.
There is an old adage about quarts into pint pots, never was this so true. The pause had not been our friend regaining composure, but simply all available spaces filling with vomit. These spaces include his nostrils and windpipe and again he stands upright pulling the bottle from his mouth, his throat still retching pints of vomit into the mask. Perhaps only seconds had elapsed, but now the true horror began to unfold. The vomit made good its escape, jetting from the mouth with unbelievable power and then, an image which will stay with you until you die, projectile vomiting from the eye sockets.
A happy-go-lucky jolly-faced Santa Claus, loved by children the world over now stands before you an old, wrinkle faced man with disheveled, matted grey hair spewing great torrents of acrid fluid from every orifice in his head.
Spattering the patrons and staff of Diamond Lils with the acid rain, happy smiling faces of a few seconds before now appeared pockmarked by the bile of our hero’s stomach.
He makes his escape to a van waiting in the lot and disappears into the night leaving the patrons and staff of Diamond lils dripping with the vile mixture.
and now you know why you never moon a werewolf.