Santa's Craw
(Dec 16/05)
I remember this one Santa that smelled like boiled meat and rashers. British, I think. His lap was crummy with Doritos and Pall Mall ashes; his Santa’s trousers cinched up around the rumen of his waist like the skin under a fat person’s arm. Wattles of it, if I remember correctly, which I seldom do, remember anything at all. Anything worth remembering is worth forgetting, so I’ve come to learn. So forgetting, then, is just as important as remembering, more so, perhaps.
I remember this one Santa that smelled like boiled meat and rashers. British, I think. His lap was crummy with Doritos and Pall Mall ashes; his Santa’s trousers cinched up around the rumen of his waist like the skin under a fat person’s arm. Wattles of it, if I remember correctly, which I seldom do, remember anything at all. Anything worth remembering is worth forgetting, so I’ve come to learn. So forgetting, then, is just as important as remembering, more so, perhaps.
Fat bastard Santa with his Polydent white gums and rashers breath. If I remember, and this I most certainly do, he had a pocket-comb in his Santa’s pocket grim with Boil Cream and loose hairs. His teeth, those few that remained in the carnage of his mouth, were blight yellow (corn yellow) and larval with food worms and pickle brine.
Well this Santa asked me if I’d fetch him a Mickey of lemon gin and a pack of Pall Malls, non-filter, in turn for which he would make sure that there were a few extra gifts under the tree for me. I agreed, took the crumpled $10’s from his shaking hand, and beat it for the parking lot. I spent the fat bastard Santa’s 10 spot on Indian chewing tobacco, licorice babies and a pack of Export A’s, king-size filter tipped. Stupid fat bastard Santa; serves him right for trying to corrupt the morals of a minor.
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