Christmas Memories with Kevin Spacey

Our in-house cryptozoologist, Amy Allen, channels the spirit of Frank Underwood for a Christmas fire-side chat...

I love Christmas and I love getting presents. Maybe that’s why I love Christmas so fucking much. Maybe that’s the only reason. Sure family is nice, but you have to put up with obnoxious ramblings from relatives to get a gift at the end of your visit. The rest of the year they don’t give two shits about you. I’ll be honest here, I always snooped around looking for hidden pre-wrapped gifts at home. Who the hell didn’t? If you tell people you never did you’re a fucking liar.

At the age of seven I had it mastered. My brother on the other hand didn’t have to sneak around and snoop through shopping bags. That little fucker could pick up a gift and feel it up like a lonely business man with a $10 hooker. He knew exactly what was in each box. As the years went by I began to get sloppy.

Sometimes when my parents or older siblings bought gifts, they would wrap them minutes after getting back from the store. What a bunch of assholes. By now the annual snooping got really fucking hard. Everybody was off on Christmas break, so I only had seconds to find my gifts while they were in the bathroom, showering or out shopping again. Shit, shower or shop. One of the three. More times than not, I had to wait until earlier in the morning on December 22 or 23. You know, whenever the fuck I felt like it. There was a kid that I went to school with who lived down the street, Jimmy Venirelli. Every time he tried to find his presents, his dad would beat him with a copper pipe. Lucky bastard, I wish I knew my old man.

The family dog was the only witness to my Christmas crime each year. I’d approach the tree and carefully take a gift from beneath. The entire house was silent. I slowly peeled away the tape and unfolded the wrapping paper until I could get a view of whatever the gift was. If it was something I asked for, I’d let out a silent scream of excitement. If I was older I’d probably blow my load in place of tinsel.

One year when aunt Florence and uncle Jack spent the holidays with us I went downstairs to snoop through my gifts and found them both on the floor naked and fucking like no tomorrow. No shit. Right under the tree. And they weren’t fit either. Real fat. Fatter than fucking old Saint Nick himself. I tell ya, it was a few years before I started talking again.

Jesus Christ… So where the fuck was I? Oh yeah. If it was something I didn’t want, it got chucked behind the tree and I’d think of a fake reaction for it on the way back to bed. I glanced over at the dog which gave me a look as if to say “baby Jesus is crying. And, why did you drown my puppies?” That didn’t stop me. I carefully re-wrapped the gift and continued with the rest. Some were difficult to unwrap and there were instances where I had to “abort my mission”. I could always tell which ones would give me trouble. The double-wrapped bastards with ribbons and what seemed to be packing tape to hold it all together. I wondered; did the Jewish kids have to go through this bullshit too? Eight times?

My heart would pound in my chest. I would freeze if I heard someone upstairs awake. I could tell by the sounds of their footsteps which room they were in, and if they were coming downstairs. The louder they got, the faster I panicked. That’s why I devised a code. Twelve steps: Someone’s going to the bathroom. Sixteen steps: Someone’s coming downstairs. “ABORT, ABORT! GAME OVER! Get that fucking gift back in the wrappings and stuff the son of a bitch under the tree so no one notices it’s been fondled.” But wait; I’m still in the living room. I’m stuck! There’s no way out! Go limp and grab a couch pillow. Cue cute look of “I fell asleep under the tree waiting for Santa.” Be carried back upstairs and tucked in bed at 3:45am. The perfect crime. Dumb fucking assholes. My family, I mean, not you. But I’m sure you’re a dumb fucking asshole too.

So merry Christmas and a happy fucking new year too!

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