This horrifying photo was snapped on the occasion of the ColuMn Alcoholic’s Halloween 2009 Party. First, Baggyman showed up, uninvited. I should have known not to drink the absinthe. As we sat, terrified that our souls would soon be teabagged, there was a thunderous knock on the door, splintering the wood and causing our ears to bleed. For the first time since I’d known him, Baggyman looked unsure. “My God,” I thought. “What horrifying monstrosity could take Baggyman by surprise?” And then he stepped over the threshold. He stared at Baggyman and Baggyman stared back and I thought for sure we were all doomed as the two titans of terror edged ever closer to all-out Armageddon.
After several tense seconds, it seemed like the two demons were somehow communicating. While still not feeling safe, I began to feel that perhaps today was not my day to die or have my soul teabagged. I edged towards my camera, eager to provide ColuMn with yet another scoop of the century.
The two horrific figures of rage sat down, unspeaking, and enjoyed a couple glasses of absinthe. And then . . . he was gone. Baggyman seemed puzzled (and quite drunk). Who was this clown-faced killer? He’d left behind no clues and no name. We don’t know what he wants. Baggyman is all about teabagging souls, but the red-nosed roustabout showed no interest, even when Baggyman offered up Red Shirt as a sacrifice.
With this new threat at least temporarily quelled, the party began to pick up again. I’d just put on Lady GaGa’s, “I Like It Rough” for the 13th time, when we were confronted with a sight that will haunt each of us to our graves.
Why, Lord, why? Why did he have to corrupt the children?
ColuMn will be following up on these revolting developments as soon we regain the will to go on.
Ho ho ho. Hello, boys and girls. It’s your old friend, Santa Claus with a special Christmas message just for you.
Oh ho ho. But I’m not your grandma’s Santa Claus. I murdered that fat fuck 20 years ago. As a punishment, the Frost Fairy turned me into Dirty Baby Santa. Which, I have to admit, I’m kinda cool with.
I mean, do you know how much tail a baby-sized Santa gets?
If I wasn’t baby-sized and dirty, I’ll admit, I might get better quality poon, but definitely not a higher quantity if you catch my drift. Ho ho ho.
Goddamn it. Damn cat won’t stop sniffing my ass. Yeah! I poop my pants! I’m a fucking baby, for Christ’s sake. Now everybody knows. Proud of yourself? I’ll bet you are. Damn cat. Ho ho.
Most of the time (when I’m not getting *ahem* serviced) I like to just sit on my crappy Sears sofa and chill out. You know. Curl up with my best friends Jack Daniels and Mary Jane. It’s the only way I can dull the voices that are constantly screaming in my head. Ho.
I know. I’m a very bad Santa. Santa need a nice rough spanking.
You don’t feel like playing with my ass? Well, how about a little head? ho ho ho.
But seriously. I”ll blow you without a condom. For five bucks.
So there you have it. It’ll be me ramming my yule log down your chimney this year and filling your stockings to the brim. So how about you shitcan the cookies and milk? Huh? Dirty Baby Santa prefers pornography and liquor. I see even one fucking chocolate chip and you can forget about a present. Fuck. I’ll burn your house down.
Merry Christmas, assholes.
Dirty Baby Santa