Happy Masturbation Day

Myself, who spent much of Christmas morning posting cartoons on the social network depicting my Christmas rituals of abusing myself to online porn and drinking until I passed out in a pool of my own vomit. It didn't quite match up with the more typical posts of snapshots of the kiddies opening their packages of choo choo trains and new dollies or screen captures of Linus teaching Charlie Brown the true meaning of Christmas, but I stand by my digital doodles. On Christmas Eve alone, I had been wished a happy Hanukkah (which had ended three weeks previously), Kwanzaa (I always receive numerous greetings that place this mysterious holiday on the same level as Christmas and Hanukkah even though I have never met a single person who actually observes it), Winter Solstice (because we don't want to offend all the pagans out there) and even Festivus (a made-up holiday from the sitcom Seinfeld). I get that we do that because we want to make the Yuletide inclusive of everyone, not just those who celebrate the birth of a child in a manger, but if we're going to throw fictional holidays into the mix to make sure no one feels slighted, I see no reason to exclude my ritual wankfest and alcohol abuse in the celebration. So I want to wish you all a Happy Masturbation Day. It may not come with a decorated tree or spinning dreidels, but it's the closest thing I have to religion. And the best thing about it is that it is much like when a young child encounters an adult on Mother's Day or Father's Day and asks when on the calendar does Children's Day fall, only to be told that every day is Children's Day. So too is every day Masturbation Day. If you don't believe me, you'd better pray that you never accidentally stumble across me in the bathroom when I'm polishing my Festivus pole.

Bro Joe, who announced "No matter what holiday you and your family celebrate -- whether it is a holiday that is spiritual and full of love, or a holiday that is just plain stupid -- I wish you glad tidings. Personally, I will be celebrating 'December Halloween,' because that's the way I roll for EVERY holiday." I can only imagine Joe means that he likes to spend holidays by wearing something scary and going to strangers' doors demanding candy. I told you last week how Joe dressed up as Santa's Naughty/Nice List for "December Halloween". For "January Halloween" (what the rest of the planet refers to as New Year's Eve) he has a very different costume planned. He intends to show up at every party he attends as a tea-totaler who only drinks milk. If that doesn't sound scary, imagine the poor women surrounding him who have to witness his Jeckyll & Hyde-like transformation into the liquor-addled sexual predator he'll be at midnight who will lunge at them with the intention of sticking his reptilian tongue down their throats at the stroke of midnight. I only pray that some of the houses he pounds at the door of asking for candy provide him with breath mints.

Jonny Award winner Jesse Merlin, who confided to me "If I threw money at a random kid on the street today and asked him to buy me the biggest goose in town, he'd look at me like I'm senile. All the butcher shops are closed today and I don't think anyone carries goose any more. He'd also probably keep the money. Times have sure changed." Mr. Merlin seemed surprised that social customs and technology had evolved since Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol in 1843, but keep in mind that we're talking about a dude who regularly dresses in a smoking jacket and ascot. If it was Mr. Merlin who awakened in the here-and-now from a visitation from three guys who spent the night telling him what an asshole he's been his whole life, I suspect he would write it off as a typical reunion of some of his former lovers. But assuming he did want to reform, Mr. Merlin would immediately hop on his computer to check the date and then navigate to the Pink Dot website to have a goose delivered to the Cratchit family by dinner time. After that, he would spend the rest of his Christmas trying to logon to HealthCare.gov to get some coverage for Tiny Tim interspersed with making sappy Twitter and Facebook posts about how wonderful Christmas is so that his followers on the social network would be so stricken by his change in personality that they'd invite him to take part in their online Words With Friends marathon. By bedtime, he would have finally got through the ObamaCare registration process and he could have retired feeling that humanity had finally crept into his cold, hard soul even though he hadn't actually interacted with a living human being the entire day. God bless us, every one.

Fogelson: The Movie

Ja'Son Fogelson, who invited me and my nemesis Misty LaRue to his annual Christmas movie marathon, in which he celebrates the birth of Jesus by going to at least half a dozen films strategically selected to allow him to theatre hop with the greatest accuracy. I have reached an age where I can't watch more than one movie in any 24 hour period without my gout getting the best of me, so I agreed to reserve seeing The Hobbit until the Yuletide with Mr. Fogelson and his kin. Until I received the e-mail containing the official Christmas movie schedule and saw that, to accommodate the greatest ease in getting from The Hobbit to the next screening on the schedule of Tyler Perry's A Madea Christmas across town, I was expected to sit through a showing of a 3-hour epic about Middle Earth in a neighborhood theatre approximately the size of your average linen closet where the screen was fixed so that it wasn't possible to view it without cocking one's head at a 218 angle and in which the projector was specially manufactured for the world premiere of The Gold Rush in 1925. Mr. Fogelson expressed bitterness when I made my apologies for myself and Ms. LaRue and we went instead to a luxurious movie palace to watch Martin Scorsese's The Wolf of Wall Street, a pointless and boring snoozefest about a self-involved hedonist whose every waking hour was devoted to doing despicable things. It was like I had spent Christmas with Mr. Fogelson after all.

Yoko Izumi

My college buddy Genelle Izumi, who arranges a small reunion of our university theatre department every year on or about the day after Christmas. Despite my youthful appearance, I went to college at about the same time that the University Wits were being educated in Elizabethan London and so much time has passed that I never give my former classmates (most of whom spent the subsequent years serving out prison terms) a second thought except on the day that Ms. Izumi organizes us to appear at some restaurant so that we can sit at a table and ask each other how parole is going. Miss Izumi doesn't seem to get that her serving as the social glue which bonds the old gang through the years is a disruption of the natural order of things. Anyone who looks that much like Yoko Ono is supposed to be breaking up groups, not holding them together.

Next week: Jonny's Top 10 Enemies of 2013