Eggnog is quite the little perpetration of animal cruelty.

Step one: Extract one gallon of another species’ baby rearin’ juice.

Step two: Abort fifty chickens.

Makes one delicious batch.

I’m not a right to lifer, exactly, just talkin bout NOG!

We should at least be making our egg nog with human milk, don’t you think? How many tits? A lot of tits. As to harvestinging an eggy analog, well, we could call it Schmeg-Nog..

But, you object, “The eggs aren’t even fertilized!! What’s the big deal, man?” Well, I’ll just respectfully point out that a certain self-professed god was supposedly born without the tangible act of fertilization. Is it really a coincidence that we commemorate the guy’s birth with our own little ‘Massacre of the Innocents’? I don’t think so.

I ask you: How many more chicken saviors must be cumguzzled over small talk and tiny sandwiches before the truth is revealed? Eat of the body of the Chicken Christ my son, and drink of the Mother Maribell, Repent and baptize your innards with creamy goodness before it is too late! Nutmeg!!

You know how it is. When you wake up violently immersed in darkness. Maybe you laid down in bed at 6:30 in the evening and now it’s maybe 4 in the morning? But, you have no hope of making a guess. Actually, you beer-drank yourself into a coma again, but for now you’re so completely disoriented that you don’t have the faintest grasp on any facet or shadow of reality. You don’t know where you are, when you are, or have any context about who you are. There isn’t even a you to know that there is a who you are.

Jolting, stiff-limbed, at an impossible angle off of the edge of the mattress and clamoring with lizard instinct toward nothing in particular; you’re groping out of the vague need to do something with your arms. Blindly you frankenstein your way toward the portal, ping-ponging the walls on your way down the hall. You are an articulated roomba whose internal organs are cocked and loaded.

And for those few moments until you regain your bearings; How cold and frightening, how you couldn’t comprehend, how fucked up it was until you’ve had some cold water on your face? And reflecting on that moment when you had no profile, no personality, no value, no soul, no brand, no self, and the happy pink frogs leap from between your legs?

You’re actually snoring on the shitter.

The dog regards you with a rehearsed suspicion.