The Twelve Days of Christmas

On the First Day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me: a pound puppy named Caesar, who was apparently mortified to be taken directly from the pound to the puppy spa where my True Love had the dog groomed and his toenails painted red for the holidays.

On the Second Day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me: a second pound puppy, this one named Brutus, who was also mortified to be taken directly from the pound to the puppy spa where my True Love had the dog groomed and his toenails painted green for the holidays.

On the Third Day of Christmas, Brutus killed Caesar. My True Love got hysterical. But seriously, said I, what did you expect when you named him Brutus?

On the Fourth Day of Christmas, my True Love wanted to go back to the pound to get a replacement pound puppy for Caesar, and I said “No”, and a terrific row ensued. She said she felt having puppies was a good indicator what type of father I’d make for our children, and I said “who the hell said anything about children?”, and she said “well I just assumed you’d want lots of them, since you’re Catholic”, and I said “where in the f**k did you ever get the idea that I’m Catholic?” and she said “well, you wear a crucifix” and I said “it’s not a crucifix, it’s an ankh”, and I realized then and there that the innocence that had so attracted me to her when we’d first met six months ago was actually not innocence but just stupidity.

On the Fifth Day of Christmas, my True Love got a ticket for walking the dog and not picking up his poop in a bag behind him, and she wanted me to pay the ticket because “he’s your dog” and I said “I never said I wanted a damn dog for Christmas, I said I wanted an Xbox” and she cried.

On the Sixth Day of Christmas, my True Love told me we were going to stay with her parents Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and I told her I had several other plans and ideas for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day but absolutely none of those plans included staying with her parents, and she cried.

On the Seventh Day of Christmas, my True Love yelled at Brutus for eating her favorite pair of shoes and wanted Me to do something about it, and I said “shall I take him aside in his room and have a man-to-man conversation with him about the importance of respecting other people’s privacy, because HE’S A F**KING PUPPY AND HE CHEWS SHIT UP”.

On the Eighth Day of Christmas, I still hadn’t bought her a Christmas present because I was pretty sure we were not going to make it as far as the big day as a couple and I didn’t like her enough to give her a present as a friend.

On the Ninth Day of Christmas, she finally, after six freaking months of begging, gave me a blow job, but it wasn’t very good.

On the Tenth Day of Christmas, she spent the entire day packing and slamming closet doors and drawers and anything to make noise and show that she was pissed off because I was not coming with her to visit her parents. I had plans of my own.

On the Eleventh Day of Christmas, my True Love stormed off to stay with her parents for the holidays, and I kissed her goodbye and wished her a safe trip, because it was raining and sleeting a little, but in the back of my mind I was sort of hoping she crashed her f**king Honda into a tree somewhere.

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, I packed up my shit and left. I took Brutus, not because I wanted a dog, but because I couldn’t subject him to dealing with that stupid bitch 24/7 for the rest of his life. We stopped at White Castle for hamburgers on our way out of town, and feasted on sliders until both of us farted toxic farts for the rest of the day, but neither of us got carsick.

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