Offspring of the Virgin's womb.
So we're nearing that time of year again. Christmas! The time when twinkling lights twinkle in your heart. The time when all manner of accoutrements and decoration and street furniture transport you back to the womblike security of your childhood. The time when you see fit to gorge yourself on all kinds of fruits and Teutonic confectioneries. The time when department stores are glazed and garnished with colour and light and novelty. The time when rock bands ditch the Moog synthesizers and reach for the sleigh bells. The time when the sounds of wailing choirs and chiming bells drift over the streetlights. Fall on your knees, now hear the angels' voices!
If you, like me, are a big fan of all these sensations, or even if you're basically just wondering what happened to them ever since you started masturbating, then I extend the offer of a Christmas card. Hopefully they'll help to reprise something of the spirit in these bleak economic times. And given that they're more Christmassy than a hundredweight of oranges, a gallon of sherry and a whole fleet of reindeer, they're guaranteed to have you leaping from your bed and going out into the snow-covered streets to bestow mouth-watering Turkey Twizzlers on some unfortunate poor folk.
Anyway, I thought I'd get in nice and early. It's never too early - look at Santa, he doesn't give a fuck! He's going to do that horse in with a hammer right now! Mrs Claus is getting a nice pair of horsehide boots this year. So if you'd like some seasons' greetings from me, (denominational or otherwise), leave your name and current fixed abode in the comments. Which are all screened, naturally. Now I'm off to snort a line of cinnamon through a roll of wrapping paper. Frohe Weihnachten!