It's just like eating the eyeball out of a deer's face

Every holiday season brings with it the warm, simmering sense of dread and panic here at the office (sometimes, I call it the "Orifice," and we all sit around and laugh a little. Then we put the mailman's clothes back on and send him on his sobbing way, covered in our seed). A lot of this peace on hell and ill will toward men stems from the fact that every yuletide reminds my boss that he is very much old and alone. This realization manifests itself in him as irrational anger and seething cruelty (i.e. creating a load of unnecessary "busy work" to keep slaves tethered to their desks, making little to no sense, smelling like Jackie Joyner Kersee's camel toe...I suppose that one is independent of the season). Needless to say, there are a lot of tense situations all centered around trying to remedy perfectly innocuous problems with a sad, delusional old lunatic. Regardless of how much this time of year makes me want to choke him to death with the plastic needles from a singing, animatronic Christmas tree, a good deal of the holiday loathing is dissipated when a certain coworker invariably brings in a giant batch of buckeyes.



Buckeyes are spectacular in that not only are they very simple (chocolate and peanut butter), but apparently, I can eat three hundred of them due to the fact that they are delicious. They are so unbelievably good that, while I was sucking down my fifteenth of the day, a coworker mentioned that he doesn't like peanut butter with his chocolate and I almost punched him in his fucking skull. You don't like peanut butter with your chocolate? Go fuck yourself, Commie. If you don't like buckeyes, you don't like life. What kind of international terrorist doesn't like to welcome, into his mouth hole, a delightful ball of slightly fleshy chocobutter? STOP PRETENDING YOU DON'T LIKE THEM.

And speaking of stopping things, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE STOP THIS LAWYER BEHIND ME FROM SINGING? I used to love Garageband. I thought to myself, what a wonderful world we live in, that there exists a music production program that makes creating li'l ditties fun and accessible. However beautiful that idea is, in the hands of someone whose voice is reminiscent of a platypus getting raped up its bill, it gets a little tiresome after the eighth or ninth warbling rendition of Galileo, king of night vision, king of insight. All I think about doing is cracking her Macbook over her head WWE-style. "He hit her with a laptop, Mean Gene!"

In closing, Merry Christmas one and everyone. I'm not sure if the rules of capitalization were thoroughly employed there, but you get my drift. GET OFF MY BACK!