I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus. On the tee-tee.

I’m fairly certain this means that Mommy and Daddy will be getting a divorce and that Santa is my new Daddy. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Dad doesn’t appreciate a g-darn thing that she does for him. He’s a slob. He’s a racist. He’s a busive. He’s a Baptist. He sits around all day in his fruity-booty whitey-tighties, scratching his nutsacks, eating beef jerky, and listening to REO Speedwagon. His only friend is the dog and he’s been dead for two years. You wouldn’t know it though, by the way Daddy keeps setting food out every morning and talking to the spot where old MustardFarts died. He treats that ghost-dog better than he treats us.

Mommy comes home after slaving away at the Waffle House. Like literally SLAVING. See, she picks cotton at the Waffle House. And when she comes home her dogs are barking. But does he ever thank her? Does he ever whip her up a little din-din? Does he ever give a deep tissue rub down? Does he ever take his jerkey smellin’ fingers off his balls long enough to give her a handjob? No. He doesn’t. He just yells at her for forgetting to get his order of h-browns chunked and smothered. Seriously. If he doesn’t get little chunks of ham on his h-browns he gets all loco, esé and starts throwing bows. Chris “Ludacris” Bridges style. Mad bows. 2 Fast 2 Furious. He flings Mommy to the ground and stomps on her rib cage until her bones making cracking sounds. Then yells at her for gargling up blood all over  the carpet and ruining the chances of get our security deposit back.

I’m GLAD Mommy was kissing Santa Claus on his candy cane striped dick. Santa seems like a real legit guy. A straight shooter. Real salt of the earth type a cool cat. He’s a giver. He’s an animal lover. He was really funny on Home Improvement in his younger years, back before he became Santa. Always busting Al Borland’s chops. Bustin’ em hard too. Like, bustin’ harder than Billy-Boy Murray, Dan-the-man Aykroyd, and that black guy back in the 80s. Anywho, maybe after the divorce with Daddy, me and Mommy can move up to the North Pole and live with Santa and the Elves and the Reindeer and Frosty and Jack Frost and Robert Frost and Michael Buble and the whole gang. And maybe Santa will learn to love me as the son he never had and train me as his apprentice to eventually replace him when he dies. Just like Kim Jong Il and his son. Oh, how I long to know love like Kim Jong Il and his son. Once I’m the new Santa, I’m going to find out where my old Daddy lives and go to  his house at night and sneak down his chimney and drop a Yule Log in the tank of his toilet. That way every time he flushes dookie water comes out.