It’s late Christmas day…
…morning and after the bosom of the family has been suckled dry by the needy desires of consumerist haggling offspring, you languish about the roaring rural fire.
It’s been literally hours since you ate your lavish breakfast and though the scrambled still born foetal eggs lay lifeless within your bulging festive belly as you stare at tranquilising telly, the aroma of cooking flesh once more fills your nostrils and a fresh thick yearn to feed again begins.
This is not the Christmas of the omnipresent Mystical Psychic being. One whose higher consciousness and accursed gifts petition his every metaphysical sensibility like a thousand years of dead and ghostly hoards demanding: “Why?”
Spare a thought then for what obligation is mine to endure as, come the fateful hour, I wrestle the universe to conjure an escape from the cacophony of cosmic screams let fly from every bloated spitting Turkey enduring crispy cremation, as they feel the cold steel carving knife saw-glide into their tender thighs and bulging breast flesh.
Your eager drooling faces anticipate the pagan mastication, but I am auditory witness to every cooking squeal from every tiny butchered piglet in his gruesome cannibal blanket, every drowning Belgian soul gurgled, belched and sprouting forth from every Brussel boiled alive, every searing baby carrot glazed to death and every single steaming blistered petit pois mass murdered.
Rest in juice the poor punctured skin flayed Parsnips, peeled, scythed, slashed and hacked, wailing as they roast alive. Then the Stuffing; imagine the noise you would make if minced, crushed, pulverised, pounded and rammed into a cadavers arse before the scorching fires of Hades Inferno ensue.
You all tear teeth bared at cauterized flesh while I, head in hands, can only wince as the porcelain cradle of the gravy with its scalding liquidised life dispenses its deathly drizzle over the roasted tater tombstones until king Edward elicits his final morbid moans.
So I have to put on my new Christmas Dr Dre ‘Beats’ branded headphones with Slade on full blast to drown out the racket so I can tuck in with everyone else. Nightmare.