I've been listening to people whine like little girls about Christmas ever since Thanksgiving ended:

"Oh boo hoo! I have to sit and have a nice dinner with my family!"

"Uncle Louie always gets to have the turkey leg! I want to die!"

"Grandma insists on kissing me when she gives me fifty bucks for no good reason... the world is so cruel and unfair!"

"Waaah! I only got three of the four video games I asked for!"

Shut the fuck up already. I'll give you something to bitch and moan about. Spend the holiday in my shoes. First you have to meet my family.

My Dad is a fat pig alcoholic with a glass eye and a gimp leg. He makes a living by mugging paperboys on collection day. He lost a length of his colon during 'Nam and has to use a colostomy bag to shit into.

Since money is tight these days, we have to settle on stealing plastic grocery bags from the Shop n' Save instead of using real colostomy bags.

Guess what that means? He fucking farts and they just burst open... and guess whose job it is to clean him up. I'll give you a hint: two letter word, first letter is "M," the last letter is "E." Still stumped? Go choke on a dick.

My Mom is another piece of work. My fat pig of a father crushed her spinal column when he impregnated her with me. She's been confined to a wheelchair for more than 23 years. The really shitty thing is that paralysis has totally screwed up her metabolism, so she tips the scales at 325lbs.

She's fucking disgusting... her buttery fat rolls ooze out from the sides of her wheelchair. Her incredible girth has bent the wheels so they don't even roll anymore. She just sits there for most of the day staring at the wall, muttering something about "doctor assisted suicide" over and over. It's really annoying. She'll eventually shuts up when I throw a few shoes at her head.

Then there's my older brothers, George #1 and George #2.

They've been under house arrest for nearly eight years.

They posed as med students from the University Hospital and snuck into a local grammar school claiming to be "researching" the rectal mucosa of six year old males.

Now they just hang around the house all day slapping each other in the balls with yardsticks. Aren't they just precious? We're not really sure which one is which.

Finally, there's my little sister Jen.

We found her on our doorstep one day. As far as we can tell, she escaped from the Korean restaurant up the street. I told Dad we couldn't afford to keep her, but he fell in love with her when she started humping his leg. Oh well, at least she sorta looks like me.

Who better to spend the holidays with, eh? It's like a fucking Frank Capra movie over here. The Stile home is all decked out with ornaments. To clarify by "home," I mean a rotting one room apartment for six people, which doesn't have indoor plumbing because we can't afford it. We all share a stew pot which we keep in a closet that doubles as the bedroom. We take turns emptying it out the window when it's time to cook a meal... or not, depending on how broke we are.

Wall-to-wall carpeting means nothing when said carpet has been around since the Hoover administration and is made of potato sacks. Actually, it's nice and soft from the generations of maggots living in the floorboards.

By "ornaments" I mean dead house pets, the Sunday funnies and dirty diapers stapled to the wall. Our Christmas tree was pretty nice though. Okay, it wasn't really a tree... it was Benny the neighborhood retard. We lured him to the apartment, smacked him over the head with a shovel and then tied him to a pole with some string lights. Once he stopped crying he looked awful purty, and the green paint really brought out his eyes.

So anyway, Christmas morning kicks off with George #2's ass in my face. "You looked chilly layin' on the floor like that Bro!" *BRAAAAAP* While I'm temporarily stunned, my sister decides to rip two of my toenails out. Damn gooks trained her well. Dad hobbles over and whips all of us with his belt, especially me.

"Ya wouldn't get beat so much if ya wusn't such an easy target, you little bald faggot!" Dad always knows just what to say to help me with my self-esteem problems.

Mom starts to moan and wail as usual, not because she cares about my personal safety, but because the sores on her hulking, hamlike body are causing her pain. "JAY COME HELP MOMMA," she moos in my direction. I grab my toothbrush and proceed to strip her down and clear away the noxious rotting flesh in her melty folds. Dad opens up another bottle of Thunderbird and draws a picture of Santa Claus on the carpet with his own shit.

By the time I finish with momma, our company comes over. Uncle Grandpa is the only one who ever comes to visit. He's a saint... always hugging and touching us, examining our prostate glands... you know, the usual stuff. He was really concerned about Mom's poor circulation and how chilly it makes her, so he spent a good half hour rubbing himself up against her and breathing heavy. He's the most thoughtful man I know. I always said he should have joined the clergy.

Then it's dinner time. "Golly Stile, what's on the menu," you ask. "Honey roasted ham? Lamb with mint jelly and all the fixings, perhaps?" No, not quite.

We hit the jackpot and it's GRADE-A chow: boiled cabbage, dried leather in ketchup and grilled cat food.

The apartment smelled like a fat Russian grandma's queef. George #1's special Tang wine is the perfect end to such a feast. It's simple to make... just mix Tang drink mix and Windex in a mayonnaise jar, set it behind the fridge and in a week or two, BLAMMO! It's what astronauts drink!

Dinner was a success this year. Sure, there were plenty of fights around the table, but the Tang wine was so strong everyone's aim was off... no knives thrown actually met their intended targets. While we digest, we sing Christmas carols around the stew pot. As per tradition, we make it to "four calling birds" before puking up our holiday bounty. I love leftovers, don't you?

Finally, its the moment we've been waiting for... exchanging gifts. Ever since we were little, Dad thought it was really funny to drag out the whole awful holiday by making is wait in agony for our presents.

Uncle Grandpa opens up the greasy sack he carries with him and presents us with the finest gift meat I have ever seen. I thought perhaps he got it from the Swiss Colony catalog, but he said he found it at some store he called "The Clinic."

"Them's here is called god's ' lil pork young Stiles," Uncle Grandpa says while caressing my scrotum. "You'll become a big strong boy iff'n ya eat this!"

I could have sworn it looked just like a really small person. God's Pork... is so like us.

What did I get for Giftmas, you ask? Every year I get the same gift. It's from my Dad.

It's greasy paper bag with "A gift certificate for THE AIDS" scrawled on it with crayons. Then he puts a broken bottle of Thunderbird to my throat and beats my ass in front of the family.

"Every year the damn same thing," I say as I choke back the vomit. WHY DAD? WHY?