A Year of Fury, Anger, and Chaos (Subbing for Hippo Who Is Also Angry)

“Did you hear that it’s Movember?”

“Oh, I’m not drinking because it’s Dry January.”

People who say these things should have their faces washed in hot gravel.

No one needs this. I don’t need this. But as part of society, I cannot escape these brain damaged fucktards who have lives so shallow and empty that they need to “participate” in a theme.

You want themes?

You gutless, soulless, trendy shitbags?

Good, then sit down in your safe space, pull up a beanbag chair, sip on your shitty coffee, and listen up.

January

“Get The Fuck Away from Me”

The holiday season is over, and now I have a mountain of bills to pay. I am hungover, lethargic, and swollen with half digested food. My children have shown not a goddamn ounce of appreciation for the mountain of gifts bestowed upon them. So just get away. Go stick your fucking head in a cement mixer.

February

“I Just Bought You Christmas Gifts.”

In Catholic school you got your throats blessed in February. (Yes, you can insert any dirty priest molester joke you want.) They crossed two candles over your throat to keep you from getting sick, and the feast day was for Saint Blaise. (Could they have come up with a gayer name?)

Anyway, Valentine’s Day can fuck itself. If you’re married for 187 years like I am, you do this dance:

“Do you want anything for Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Fozz?”

“No.”

That means yes. I put it off to the last minute, buy a card and a bag of Andy Capp’s Hot Fries, a quart bottle of Mickey’s Big Mouth. And she gets fucking twisted.

So, fuck this month. It’s cold, grey, and contains a holiday that needs to be lined up and shot.

March

“I Will Fight You in a Bar”

St. Patrick’s Day eats shit. Fucking amateurs in the bar puking up green beer and wearing idiotic t-shirts. Sorority girls screaming and taking selfies and blowing guys in the bathroom.

And Ireland is a piece of shit. I mean, yes we love the fucking accent, but what else does it produce? Alcoholics, car bombings, potatoes, bad teeth, wool sweaters that smell like goats and dried vomit, and fuck all else. Go back to your decrepit island and fuck a sheep.

April

“JESUS IS MORE THAN CANDY AND EGGS!”

As long as I can remember I have dedicated a part of my heart and soul to hating Easter. It’s stupid and dull and the weather is nastier than the Shroud of Turin. Being a Catholic, I was forced to go to Easter Vigil Mass.

I’d rather get a massage from Stephen A. Smith.

It’s three fucking hours of boring, mindless shit. Then there are the newcomers – why convert to this religion confounds me – who are getting baptized and making their confirmations.

Hocus pocus voodoo shit.

When my sisters and I were in our twenties, after one vigil mass, we went out AND GOT BLIND FACED SHITBOMBED FUCKING DRUNK. Showed up the next day at my mom’s and I puked outside in the bushes.

May

“I’m Drunk on a Boat!”

Memorial Day is about fat, pale, pigs who slop their bodies all over a beach or pool. They bring their crotch fruit to run around unwatched so they can piss and shit in the pool.

Then you have to go to a cookout, and if there is anyone there under 30, they bring god awful beer that sits in your gut like a fucking anvil.

There’s also the fact that the kids will be home from school – and they are as unwanted as a bag of roaches shoved up your ass.

Seriously, this is the bone season for me. The summer stretches out like No Man’s Land – full of bloated corpses, shattered meat, and gigantic craters that can drown a man.

June

“No, Let’s Not Get Married.”

Sitting and watching two dolts commit the worst mistake of their lives is sad. And I have to buy them some useless piece of shit they’ll never use.

Do you know that one of the turds at our wedding gave us an olive dish?

An olive dish is a foot long, ceramic tray about one inch wide with a trench where you put . . .olives. There is only one thing I want to do with that – shove it up the butt of the asshole who gave it to me.

I can seriously claim that in 20 years I have never driven home from a wedding. Once, out of pure spite, I drank doubles of Old Turkey the entire evening because I hated the couple getting married. Next day, I wanted to die.

July

“LOVE THIS COUNTRY OR I EAT YOUR GUTS!”

First, I do love my country. It gave my family a chance. A chance to get called dirty, greasy, ignorant wops. Seriously, I still love it. But let’s be honest, America has all of the glamor and promise of a boil on a dog’s ass.

The patriotic fervor is soul crushing. “TATTOO AN AMERICAN FLAG ON YOUR EYEBALLS YOU COMMIE!”

Political parties use this celebration to drag each other through the septic tank. I propose shoving each of them down the barrel of the guns on the USS Missouri and firing them point blank into the Grand Canyon.

August

“There is Mulligan Stew in my Underwear”

Maryland is awful in August. The humidity makes you feel like there are jellyfish draped over your body. Everyone is hot and there is no respite. No one wants to celebrate a fucking thing.

In the event you have an idea for a celebration, shove a metal spike up your nose.

September

“I’m Leaving You at School”

Does anyone else want to drive nails into the eyes, ears, nose, and throats of these corporate America advertising pukes who consistently batter you with nonsensical fucking messaging?

It’s Back to School! GET BACK TO SCHOOL! BUY THIS $80 BACKPACK OR YOUR KIDS WILL BE SHOVED INTO LOCKERS!

This month is a whirlpool of shit because everyone is getting back on their schedule, and the kids are miserable, and then people start gushing about fall and crisp air and sweaters.

No, it’s still 89 degrees at 2 in the morning. We live in hell. Shove an LL Bean Catalog sideways up your ass.

October

“I’m a Witch. No! I’m a Jedi!”

I like Halloween, but then the rest of humanity trundles along and shits candy corn all over it. First, there’s the goddamn PC police telling us what we can and can’t wear because someone will get offended. Eat a dick.

Then we get all of the crap about Columbus Day. I am a full blooded Italian-American, and we as a group get a day to celebrate our Italianess, but we have to hear all of this shit about how Columbus was a murderer. Okay, he was. What explorer wasn’t?

The general public misses the entire point of this holiday, and that’s for us to feel proud about our accomplishments, and look back on who was here before us, and why we are where we are today. Plus, eat pasta and drink wine.

When I see statues of Columbus torn down, I want to go after these people like a wolverine on PCP.

Back to Halloween – adults who have kids – if you are dressing up and going trick or treating with them, I am taking your name and ID and going immediately to the website that lists child molesters and sex offenders.

You have a kid. You’re too old to dress like a Jedi. Grow up and fuck off.

November

“Kill or Be Killed Around the Cranberry Sauce”

I used to love Thanksgiving as a kid. It was the prelude to Christmas, except my parents weren’t about to tear each other’s arms off. Traditional dinner, but you had to have ravioli. (I hate ravioli.) There was football and my grandfather huffing down filter less Camel cigarettes, crushing Budweiser, and being an all-around, Olympic caliber asshole. Ah, memories.

Now, people have “Friendsgiving” and “WhiteGuiltGiving” and “Vegangiving.” I am going to invite all of these dingleberries over for “BeatYouWithaSackofRocksgiving.”

Don’t fuck with tradition. We all know that history isn’t true. But for one day can we stuff ourselves to bursting, revel in the crushing of bodies on the field, and realize why we truly hate certain family members?

December

“Brawling Around the Christmas Tree”

One of my favorite Christmas memories does not involve gifts.

I was about 10 and my mother was downstairs cooking, and it was a mild night so I had my window open and my electric candle turned on. I heard her go outside, probably to prevent herself from losing her mind, and one of our neighbors was out walking her dog. They spoke for a while, smoking cigarettes, and it just made me feel good. Safe. Secure. Hopeful.

Anyway, the Yule Tide season is a heaping load of rotted fish guts. My wife and I marked the season with full on cage-match style brawls over whose family we were spending the holidays. Ugly. My mother-in-law set the stage about 19 years ago because I seemed “depressed” when I was at their house and “I really ruined the day.” Thanks, you fucking toad.

Fast forward and now I have my own group of junkyard dogs (otherwise known as my sons). They have completely destroyed a few Christmas mornings, sending my wife into hysterics and me right to the bottle at 9 in the morning.

Overspending, overeating, and never ending commotion aren’t fucking shepherds in the desert getting the shit scared out of them by a bunch of vengeful angels.

Fuck the shit out of this holiday – I’d rather take the money and buy a motorcycle, smoke meth, and lay waste to a small town in Wichita.

There’s your 12 months. Don’t like it? I am all out of fucks to give. If anything offended you, I am not sorry. In the end, every day has the appeal of being stuck in a closet with Peter King, Skip Bayless, and Donald Trump. (I would pay good money to watch Bayless undergo a spinal tap that ends with his paralysis.)