Maybe it’s just the remnants of the morphine talking, but this could be one of the funniest pictures I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure what to make of that kid behind the poser in the black dress, but I’m pretty certain it’s that Chuckie fella. Either that or it’s what you get when you cross Ronald McDonald and…well, I’m not sure, maybe a fat broad or something. There goes the theory that stripes are slimming.

On behalf on everyone here at Mitchieville, we would like to wish you and your family a wonderful, joyous Christmas. We hope that Santa is good to you and that you get everything you are looking for. Reality tells me though, that you’re not going to get half the things you are looking for, and I base that solely on the piss poor performance you decided to mail in this year. However, that’s downer talk, it’s not what any of us need at Christmas.

The theme for my Christmas message last year was one of love and charity. Times quickly changed though, this is a year like no other we have ever seen, therefore, my theme this year is about survival. As you are seeing on the tele, and reading on the web and in the papers, we are headed for some terrible times financially. One glimmer of hope though, these same people that are predicting a great depression, completely missed the financial collapse of the banks and financial system a few months back. They didn’t see it coming. Oopsie.

This Christmas season, I’d like you to tune out all the negative Nellies on the tele and on the web. I want you to put away all the negative thoughts and dire predictions, and I’d like you to concentrate on the one thing that really matters in life: Family. If the world goes to hell in a handbasket, if financial Armageddon happens tomorrow, it will never take away, or even diminish the love you have for your family and the love your family has for you.

I talk to my mom sometimes about what life was like for her in Ireland 60 years ago, I ask her what the *good old days* were like. Well, my mom and her 6 sisters and two brothers lived in a one bedroom, thatched roof piece of shit. No plumbing, no electricity, no nothing. 500 square feet of nothing. Her father went to war in 1941 and got captured by the Germans in 42, spent the rest of the war in a prisoner of war camp. As a matter of fact, the Salvation Army couldn’t find him in any German records, so they told my moms family that he was dead. So, my moms family spent the next four years, until he arrived home unexpectedly, with the thought that their daddy was dead. There’s four Merry Christmases for you.

When my grandpa did come home, he came home half out of his mind and resumed making no money like he did before he left. Their family relied on handouts from neighbours and the good graces of the church. One thing that was free and regular though, were the beatings. Being Irish is special, one thing you can always count on is getting a good beating. My mom (and her family) got regular beatings from grandpa, the school masters, clerics, basically anyone with hands administered beatings.

Those were the good old days for my mom.

My mom tells me that there was very little good back then, the only thing she misses is the closeness of her family. They were tight, they went through hell and back and survived. They got bloodied and bruised, the starved every day, they had sweet fuck all, but they had each other, and at the end of the day that’s all that matters in life.

Anyway, I went on a tangent there, all I really meant to say was have a wonderful Christmas that’s full of love and joy. And in case you get too many presents, specifically gift cards for the liquor store, you can send them over to The Mayor–I’ll make sure they get distributed to those in need

BTW–that is NOT dmorris in the picture, however, those are his boots.

I know we did Christmas week already, but I still have five decent Christmas pictures that I need to unload. And speaking of unloading, here’s a Christmas present that you’ll never get under a tree, or under your bed, or under anything you own. Unless one of the gifts you get this year is ether and a rag, then the chances of you picking up a chick like this is zero to none. BTW, I’m not condoning picking up women by drugging them, but then again, I’m not here to judge you, I’m only here to judge the pictures you send me.

Merry Christmas, pervert.

I think at this point I feel the sorriest for Santa’s reindeer. The next time Santa asks you if you have been naughty or nice, you may want to deflect that question right back on him. If you happen to see Santa coming down your chimney next week and he’s wearing a studded anything, shoot him on the spot. Sure, you’ll be killing a hero to millions of children, but think about the movie Pulp Fiction and that whole S & M scene, and you’ll immediately know you made the right decision.

Merry Christmas, and a hurting new year.

I know this picture isn’t very Christmasy, but I’ll be God damned if it isn’t frickin’ funny as all hell.

Looking back at previous Christmases, most of us have nothing but beautiful and special memories. Since time has passed, we tend to look at things through rose coloured glasses. It always snowed Christmas day, we always got the perfect gift, and Santa was a totally fantastic guy. I’m sure if our memories weren’t skewed, if they were fully intact, we would remember Santa the way the little tyke in the picture will remember Santa for the next few years–as a vicious flesh eating wolf that preys on the weak.

Merry Christmas, little Timmy–you poor son of a bitch.

I don’t know of a soul alive who can look at the wrinkled body and the chubby face of a baby and not smile. Except for my uncle Louis, of course. Uncle Louis hated babies, he was a real monster. The thing about uncle Louis is that he wasn’t mentally ill or anything, yet he harboured this terrible hate towards babies. It seemed he hated them because they smelled weird or something. He also hated anything that had no control over when they took a shit. We use to say, “Uncle Louis, you can’t possibly hate babies, they’re so adorable, a miracle from God.” But Louis always had the same answer, “Fuck babies, they have no souls. And any God that represents them is no God of mine.”

Well, the last joke is on uncle Louis, as he had a stroke and died 15 years ago. On the one hand I still miss him, on the other hand he was kind of a prick and when it comes down to it, anyone who hates babies should die by massive coronary.

And that’s my favourite Christmas story, I hope you enjoyed it.

There’s just something about hot broads with Christmas ornaments hanging from their breasts that really puts me in the festive spirit. I’m a traditionalist like that though. The only thing that could be hotter is if they were hanging from a Christmas tree with pine needles poking into their skin.

Ya right, like you weren’t thinking the same thing.

I thought this would be a good way to start out Christmas week by showing two lovely ladies in full Christmas regalia. Then I noticed right before I posted that these chicks aren’t dressed as elves, they’re dressed like Robin Hoods wife. So I looked a little closer and noticed they both have Vulcan ears. I was going to take the picture down, but then I figured that who the hell really cares what they’re wearing–after all, they’re blond, they’re holding each other, and if you let your mind wander, they’ll start kissing each other smack dab right on the lips any second now.

Have a merry vulcan Christmas. Nanu nanu.

What the hell is the matter with that young lady, she’s going to catch her death of cold. Oh right, she’s an emo, that’s probably what she’s aiming for.

To be fair, this girl actually classifies herself as a vampire and not an emo, so technically she shouldn’t be part of emo week, she should be part of Idiot Who Lacks Grounding In Reality Week. 

Oh well, if you have any complaints, take it up with management.

Sure, emo-ism is a disease that needs to be eradicated, but I have to admit, there are some emo girls that are cute as the day is long. There’s just something about a girl with blue hair, pink lipstick, too much make-up, combined with low self-esteem and multiple cuts on her wrists and neck that really turns me on. Maybe I’m old fashioned that way, who knows?

I got a chuckle out of how Chris described emo’s–”these guys are goth’s superficial, less interesting cousin. They’re so pathetic they can’t even get the “dress up like a depressed clown” look correct.” I chuckled because sometimes the truth can be the funniest thing going.

I’m not even sure this guy is an emo or a goth, but I do know he has that look that makes me want to wallop the stink off his breath. I also know that unless your goal in life is to star in a home improvement show or to become some sort of decorator, painted fingernails, bandannas, and tinted hair aint gonna get you far.

There’s such a fine line when it comes to raising a child. If you don’t give the kid enough attention he ends up looking like the ogre in the picture. If you end up giving your kid too much attention, pandering to his every need and such, he ends up looking like the ogre in the picture. In my opinion, the best approach to raising a kid is to pay enough attention to them that they always know you’re just a fist and a boot away. Anything less than that, well you’re not parenting hard enough, are you?

From my understanding, emo’s originated back in the Clash and Sex Pistols days. Kids that were into heavy punk dressed up in black, pierced their faces and  became hermits and speed freaks. 30 years later, emo’s are the kids that are right into groups like My Chemical Romance, Panic at the Disco, and other various sundries of unlistenable music. The main difference I see now compared to then, is back in the 80’s, the kids that listened to punk were the kids that would take pleasure in killing you. They were rather tough kids, and really enjoyed unadulterated violence on a large scale. The offshoot to those kids, the modern day emo as it were, are chickenshit little wimps that are nothing more than punching bags to even the weakest children.

I asked this emo creature who works at city hall under some program we have where we have to hire a percentage of unemployable to fill positions that don’t really exist, I asked the kid if emo’s originated back to the 80’s. He/she/it grunted a few letters, but couldn’t actually form a word much less a sentence. So I did what his father and mother should have done years ago to him/her/it: I grabbed the creature by the scruff of the neck, threw him/her/it up against a vending machine, and told him/her/it that the next time I ask them a question they better look me straight in the eyes and give me a proper answer, or so help me Lord sweet Jesus in heaven, I’ll crack their fucking head open like a drunkard on a Budweiser bottle.

Emo cried.

I suppose the point of this story is that I’m a bully, but a bully that can back his words up with actions. Actions that include swift and intense force designed to inflict maximum pain to the marginalized and stupid. You would think at 42 years of age that I shouldn’t be like that, but I really hate emo’s with a passion. They hijacked the coolness of The Clash and The Stranglers and replaced it with such idiocy as Fall Out Boy.

I’m pretty sure this is a Shopped picture, mostly because of the half child in the background. Never the less, I would think that when it comes to teaching youngins’ gymnastics in China, this is exactly how they do it. I’m just surprised there isn’t anyone there poking these kids with a sharp stick while yelling Mao slogans in their ear. “It is good to hang from wood!” “Act like the half child, cry not when being hanged from wooded bars!” “Children may cry when being hung from wooden bars, and the fall from those wooden bars will make their bones snap like the twigs from a sapling–then those little bastards will really have something to cry about!”

My Chinese political sloganeering is rather dry right now, and I blame it all on that half a child in the background.

If you’re wondering how and why this picture represents Sports Week, I suggest grabbing that knitting needle you have in your hand and shoving it straight into your face. Pictures like this are not to be questioned, they are manna from heaven and we should thank any God but the Christian God that they were sent to us.

Let us pray.

Dear Lord and heavenly father, thank you for the picture you have sent down from above. I realize I am a sinner, and a shitty dresser, and I thank you from my pear shaped heart for everything you have provided me.

May you look over me (but not for the next 15 minutes), and especially The Mayor, and give him extra special blessings for being your conduit by bringing me a picture that is worthy of my desktop.

All this in your heavenly name,

Amen

What you are looking at is a candidate in a job interview at the Fenris Badwulf School of Telemarketing Excellence. So far so good it looks like, but I suggest if the candidate really wants the job, he will spin around really quickly and show the interviewee some of his professional skills. Hahaha, fag.

Damn, that is one funny picture. I’ve never really understood the fascination with sports where the probability of another mans testicles rubbing against your neck or face are really high. Hockey, football, baseball, no problem, the chances of someones pills bouncing of your mug are next to zero. But jiu jitsu, wrestling, and the like, you’re never more than a split second away from having your face buried in some guys goodie package. Thanks but no thanks.