Wipeout

At the risk of offending those of you in this world who were attempting to appease Omar Bricks this holiday season, I think it's safe to announce that this Christmas was a bona fide, Class A, Jesus Christ barfing into a French horn wipeout. No car, no immediate future promises of a car, and no surprise celebrity blowjobs to make up for the fact that I didn't get a car for Christmas. If you've ever been kicked in the nuts by a kangaroo, then you know the kind of pain I'm talking about here.

The week before Christmas I started to get the feeling the car thing wasn't going to happen when my cousin called to ask me what size kilt I wear. I told him I can squeeze into a size you'vegottabefuckingkiddingme, at which point he said something about how he'd have to eyeball it then and hung up. Bad omens rarely come so clearly or call collect.

I held out some hope until Christmas Eve, when I left the garage door unlocked in order to facilitate a magical car surprise Christmas morning for any interested parties who might want to sneak a Ferrari in there while I was sleeping. Not that I realistically expected anyone in my family to have that much class, but I figured maybe some drunk would pull up to my house by mistake and leave his keys in the ignition. Could happen. Of course, the down side is then I'd have some drunk sleeping in my garage while I was out Christmas joyriding, but I can't honestly say I'm sure there's not one in there somewhere already. So I figure I'd at least be breaking even on the deal.

Around 2am I thought I heard a would-be Santa out in the garage, but it turned out to just be a family of raccoons eating the paint off my lawnmower. I was tempted to chase the hungry little bastards off with a claw hammer, but since it was Christmas I decided to leave them be so they could go off somewhere to die in peace. I'm not sure how toxic the model paint was that I used to paint the flames on that lawnmower, but there was a picture of Jonestown on the back of the jar so I'm pretty sure that spelled bad news for any forest animals or neighborhood kids who've been teething on those tasty paint chips. All I know is Darwin didn't need to go all the way out to Galapagos to find this kind of natural selection in action.

I went back to sleep and dreamt that George Burns was there shitting sugarplums into my cereal bowl, only they weren't sugarplums. When I woke up it was Christmas morning, but not the kind where you come downstairs to find your heart's desire wrapped up under the tree. No miraculous car in the garage, not even some long-lost depressed relative who'd signed the title before wrapping the exhaust hose around into the driver-side window. No such Christmas magic for Omar Bricks this year.

So I did the rounds, got some socks and a juicer that blows right through socks like they were made out of tissue paper. Not bad. Somebody got me a beer mug that says "Fuck You!" that was pretty nice. Got a deworming kit for Foghat, though frankly I'm not sure if that's a nice precautionary gesture or a subtle hint that my dog has worms. Like I'm the only one who hasn't noticed and my dog's some kind of gnarly science exhibit, ruining family picnics and shit. I'm not even sure how you're supposed to check for that kind of thing, I guess I've always assumed it would be obvious. Like your dog wants to go fishing all the time or something.

Anyway, it was a pretty standard Christmas in the life of Bricks, nothing to be ashamed of. And refreshingly light on death threat Christmas cards this year, really. But I'd be lying if I said my Christmas spirit wasn't thrashing around at the bottom of a lake, wearing cement Reeboks right about now. All because of the Christmas wish too beautiful to come true. But I suppose it could be worse. I could be my neighbor Dale, I hear he's got some dead raccoons he can't find somewhere up in his crawl space that are making his entire house smell like Teddy Roosevelt's bunghole. Yuck.

Bricks out.

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