The Worst Christmas

So much for kissing under mistletoes, basking in the spirit of giving and unwrapping presents under the Christmas tree, all I had for Christmas was a $300 tab for breaking a mirror and a facial disfigurement.

My afternoon church service was a welcomed redemption for me, but it didn’t mean that I kept my mouth in check and I ended up leaving them speechless.

ChurchGuy: “Hi, Merry Christmas. Thanks for coming.”
Me: “Yea..Merry Christmas.”
ChurchGuy: “Have we met before? You look every familiar..”
Me: “In porno movies maybe...”

He stared wide eye at me while Faith broke out into a laugh then proceeded to cover my mouth with the service booklet.

He didn't appreciate my joke much. Fuck him.

ChurchGirl: “Hi, do you want to attended the children’s carnival later?” [hands me stack of coupons]

Me: “Can I buy drinks with this?”
ChurchGirl: “Yep, of cos you can.”
Me: “Is there Vodka?”
ChurchGirl: [stares at me] “Erm, nope…”
Me: “Then no thanks.”

One year ago when I went to Dek’s annual Christmas and Birthdy party at his place, I was nearing my final days in pedaling gas. One year on, I’m anticipating the 29th like a 40 yr old virgin at the whore-house. The wait had been so long that my excitement over it has significantly mellowed.

Everything else about the party remained exactly how I remembered it to be. Generously laced with food worthy of making the Iron Chefs smile and wine bottles lined up like bowling pins waiting to be emptied.

The primary enticement in going down to meet CokeWhore and the others at MoS, was the enticement of a private room. We are talking about large plush sofas seats, private dance floor and endless streams of alcohol. My decision to welcome Christmas at a club was blossoming into a fairytale.

Then it changed. Drastically.

One moment I’m sipping from my glass of amaretto and nibbling on cherry stalks, the next I’m clutching my left temporal region in pain from an accidental projectile. There has never been a better way to illustrate to you how much Christmas hates me, than a good ole’ shot to the head with a cube of ice.

I lifted my hands off and my friend started screaming something about blood. I flipped my palm over to see it scarlet soaked from the fingers trickling down to the open palm. I had been bukkaked with stupidity and childish wargames. The consequence of which, left me bloodied, looking like I came off a losing battle with an eyebrow tweezer.

As I sat there while they switched between applying pressure to the wound and cleaning my face with wet tissues, only one thought crept in.

Is my shirt stained?

It didn’t matter that the impact was an inch away from my eyes and I was narrowly left with living my life out playing the harmonica at Wisma underpass. Neither did the possibility of having a scar dawn upon me instantaneously.

And once the initial blood flood had seemingly ceased, I turned to the only efficacious means of numbing I recognize, alcohol. So much for my worries that this Christmas eve would be a regurgitation of the prosaic. I now have more than I bargained for.

Everyone started pouring me with discounted consolations soon after as I sat there pouting over my misfortune.

“Never mind lah, scars make you look more manly..”

I respond to most of that with,

Me: “Fuck you. Which part of me looks anything remotely manly?”

It seems that I’m destined for memorable Christmas’. From getting slapped last year to getting iced this time round, I’m actually looking forward to getting myself pregnant next year. All this, my crimson Christmas, capped off by having to pay $300 for a broken mirror.

The only thing that threatened to explode this into ‘The Worst Christmas Ever’ was my cab driver who told me he was very sleepy and that he nearly dozed off at the wheel. If there was any one line that worked more effectively than caffeine, this had to be it. This immediately kept me at the edge of the seat repeatedly trying to engage him in conversation.

Me: “Uncle, don’t fall asleep ah, I’ve already lost a lot of blood today, I can’t take another accident.”

He didn’t think I was very funny. Fuck him.

Cabbie: “What happened to you? Your face is bleeding!”
Me: “Got hit by ice…”
Cabbie: “Ice?! How come can cut you? Glass issit? Why? Got into a fight ah?”

And suddenly I realized how pussy the circumstances leading to my accidental disfigurement sounded. Right, getting iced while nibbling cherries sounded real manly. I might have just as well gotten a leg cramp from watching Days Of Our Lives.

Me: “Ermm.. ya.”

Yes! Back to being a man.