I can’t wait for Thanksgiving to be over so I can to listen to Michael Buble sing all my favorite Christmas songs. A little smooth. A little jazzy. A little swagger with a half-cocked grin. Christmas time is Buble time. No butts about it.
I love the way his velvety warm vocals wrap around me like I’m an Egyptian mummy or something. Like I once owned a gang of Jew slaves that I used to build myself a statue of myself except with the body of a crocodile, while I sat around eating figs and letting hunky oiled up dudes fan me with ostrich feathers. And if the Jews didn’t work fast enough I would turn into a giant scorpion and stab them in the chest with my tail.
I love the way Michael does the ever-so-slightest pelvic thrusts when he is up on stage performing. It’s just the tiniest little push. So small that it cannot even be seen by the naked eye. Even with binoculars, you’ll miss it if you blink. I’m talking subtle little hummingbird humps. About the same amount of movement generated when two ladybugs are having sex. Barely there. But you know they’re occurring. You can feel them. In your heart. Ever had the hairs on the back of your neck stand-up? That’s Buble. In this way, Michael Buble’s miniature pelvic thrusts are a lot like God The Father, Creator of Heaven and Earth. It’s a matter of faith. And that faith makes you whole. You have to just believe it’s real because if you don’t, then what the fuck is the point of living? What is all this for? I swear to God I will blow my fucking brains out of my skull onto this bathroom floor if Buble isn’t really doing pelvic thrusts up there. But he is. I have faith.
Every Christmas Eve I like to take what I call a Buble Bath. It’s sort of a special tradition I have. First, I set the mood by lighting a few scented candles. Cinnamon. Fresh Fallen Snow. Gingerbread Wonderland. Shit like that. Soothes the soul. Maybe I’ll pop open a bottle of bubblé (the pun was fucking INTENDED). I fill the jacuzzi tub with oils and soaps from across the world from Canada to Oregon. Then I slowly, delicately slide 5 or 10 beans of ecstasy into my brown eye. As soon as I start rollinballz I pop in a mix CD of all my favorite Buble Christmas classics and hop on in the tub. For the next 6 hours I do nothing but cram a bottle of Pantene Pro-V Shampoo plus Conditioner for Damaged Hair in my shit-den, try to stack bath beads in my pee hole like a Pez dispenser, and let that sweet song bird of a man #OccupyMyEarHoles.
I usually try not to operate motor vehicles or machinery during the Holiday Season. Especially, if there is a radio nearby. ESPECIALLY, if it’s tuned to Magic 96.5. It’s too dangerous with the looming risk of hearing a Michael Buble song, which will send me spiraling into a 3-4.5 minute squirt sesh until the song is over. Afterwards I’m left with a half gallon of Buble’s homemade eggnog and have to wait until some stupid ass cunt bitch like Bing Crosby or some other faggot starts singing before I may commence normal activities.
Bing Crosby is a piece of shit. You’re old news buddy. Get the fuck off the radio. Let a professional sing that shit. Buble style. If I wanted to listen to Bing Crosby
I would go visit my Gram Gram at the retirement home. All those geezers do is play bingo, listen to Bing, shit themselves, and talk about the good old days when you could “drag a darkie out of his car, string him up by his scruff from the hanging tree, and make like a human pinata.” Those old people are racist as fuck. And so was Bing Crosby. You’re dreaming of a “White Christmas?” Really? In your dreams, Bing. The blacks and the mexi’s are here to stay and if you don’t like that shit, then you can go bury your fucking sleighballs in the pure white snow til they get frostbite, YOU FUCKING CUNT! You’re probably roasting chest-nuts on an open fire, waiting for some black folks to come by caroling, so you can call Eugene and the boys to get out the fire hoses. Well fuck you Bing Crosby. You ain’t no Buble. Your songs sound like they were recorded in an abandoned barn in like 1940. Get with the times you piece of vocally challenged bird shit. Buble’s the real deal Holyfield. And if you can’t accept that shit, then eat a fat cock and have yourself a holly jolly Christmas.
I’m not going to support that kind of bigotry. And neither is Michael Buble. Because he is Canadian and Canadians can’t process hate. They tolerate all races and creeds with arms wide open. Because that’s what the holidays are all about.