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Editors-in-Chief Sam Knowles Amelia Stanton Managing Editor of Features Charles Pletcher Managing Editrix of Arts & Culture Jennie Young Carr Managing Editor of Lifestyle Jane Brendlinger Features Editor Zo Hoffman Arts & Culture Editors Clayton Aldern Tyler Bourgoise Lifestyle Editors Jen Harlan Alexa Trearchis Pencil Pusher Phil Lai Chief Layout Editor Clara Beyer Aesthetic Mastermind Lucas Huh Contributing Editor Emerita Kate Doyle Copy Chiefs Julia Kantor Justine Palefsky Staff Writers Berit Goetz Ben Resnik Ben Wofford Copy Editors Lucas Huh Caroline Bologna Kristina Petersen Allison Shafir Blake Cecil Nora Trice Chris Anderson
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7arts & culture // anita badejo jogging slow to dido 10 arts & culture illustrious fathers of bicycles, quail, and 11holiday guidejane brendlinger me jane you food // 12 holiday guide
my big fat greek christmas // alexa trearchis holiday memories // the editors // clayton aldern things are looking up / tyler bourgoise /
The naked readers of a play, described by its orchestrators as equal parts whimsical and heartbreaking. We are intrigued. And you should be too! The troupe will be performing on Saturday and Sunday, at Faunce Underground.
TOP TEN Things the Vatican Doesnt Want Us to Do over Winter Break.
Yoga. Read Harr y Potter. Watch Avatar. Use condoms. Masturbate.
weekend
Post- Magazine is published every Thursday in the Brown Daily Herald. It covers books, theater, music, film, food, art, and University culture around College Hill. Post- editors can be contacted at post.magazine@gmail. com. Letters are always welcome, and can be either e-mailed or sent to Post- Magazine, 195 Angell Street, Providence, RI 02906. We claim the right to edit letters for style, clarity, and length.
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CUDDLE FOR WARMTH ALEF BEATS ARCH SING Wayland Arch Sat 10pm
upfront
music is
inevitable. Just like Trey Songz.
books is
reading John Updikes posthumous thoughts and scribbles. Run, rabbit, run.
tv is
OUR ILLUSTRATORS
cover // caroline washburn (not) studying abroad // madeleine denman slumpus brunonius // kah yangni jogging slow to dido // phil lai things are looking up // marissa ilardi of bicycles // kirby lowenstein my big fat greek christmas // julia stoller holiday memories // phil lai We issue a heartfelt apology to Madeleine Denman, who was not credited for her illustration of the hyperactive hip hop featurette that ran on November 17. Anish Gonchigars illustration of the one of the crew feature in the same issue was incorrectly attributed, as was Kirby Lowensteins illustration of krasinski feva. Caroline Washburn was not credited for her food/booze illustration. Thank you for all your hard work. You are our (graphic) heroes!
getting the math out of here and watching some Adventure Time. Algebraic!
theatre is
waiting for the day when flying taxicabs become a reality.
food is
booze is
eggnog. Nuff said. Oh, and booze.
feature
POST-
Slumpus Brunonius
staff writer
storm of a week. How much longer before its designated an awful semester? Also, our protagonist is a sophomore. For what its worth. When it comes to other peoples shitty lives, I generally try to live and let live (for karma purposes). If they want to rationalize a run of bad luck as a Slump, fine with me. So I was surprised to hear that the Slump is kind of disputed. It matters, especially for John D. Protagonist, who is a real person; but when I told my RC about him, she was less than sympathetic. My sophomore year was awfulI was depressed, I was upset, I wanted to transfer. Then my grandpa died; it was awful. Not once did you see me complaining about a [makes air quotes] Sophomore Slump. Granted, my RC likes to remind me her family came from a mud hut with dirt floors whenever I mention that my heater is broken. But she has a point. At best, a Slump is really just semantics. At worst, its voodoo. In 1943, Hitler knew the Allies would invade from the south; the only question was where. The corpse of a British solider washed ashore into German hands, on his person numerous secret letters from British commandants revealing their plans to invade Greece. Hitler was thrilled and moved his resources to defend Greece. Then the Allies invaded Sicily and changed the tide of the
ben WOFFORD
Our protagonist stumbles in well past midnight, the book he vowed to read at the library well under half-finished. He heats up some tea in the microwave then forgets about it, downs too much Tylenol PM, and falls asleep with his clothes on. The next morning, he sleeps through his first two classes; at his third, a paper earns his first C of college, which just adds insult to the all-nighter he pulled to write it. He beelines to the Ratty where he tries to eat his feelings, but his appetite hasnt been the same ever since his girlfriend ended things on Tuesday. She said the way he seems to schedule her in to a freakish schedule makes things feel forced. She has a point, which makes him think about his social life. He parties enough to be guilt-tripped by his mom, studies enough to know the Rock librarians by name. His go-to constellation of pre-games and hangouts have dimmed with his upperclassmen friends studying abroad. He wants to rest his tired mind, but this week he has a paper and two tests, one of them tomorrow. Was it always like this? Our protagonist is having a shit-
war. Considered one of the greatest counter-intelligence achievements in history, the British Operation Mincemeat was more psych than spy: it hinged on convincing Hitler of what he had always suspected, an invasion of Greece. The fiction of a dead British soldier infected Hitlers mind into poor decision making. So is the Slump real, or might there be proverbial dead Brits at work here? If things go south sophomore year, is the knowledge of the Slump cold comfort? Or is it just a useless fiction, dressed up in myth to make sense of sophomore pain? Suddenly, the very idea of a Slump can infect sophomore thinking and resign its victims into a vicious cycle of misery. The back-and-forth aloneis it an awful week or the Slump?is enough to torment anyone. For the record, put me in the pro Slump existence category. Its hard to outshine a dazzling first effort, or recapture the excitement of the first, whether its a movie, skydiving, a sexy date, or a year at college. In mathematics, its termed regression toward the mean. Even if your second time manages to match the first, at best its redundant. But then theres a looming question: how best to buck to the Slump? And the answer is: Whatever works. Enter the superstition of hyper-mental athletes. Witness a parade of pre-game rituals, foul-line ceremonies (omitted here are the more repulsive things athletes do for luck, including season-long abstinence from sports gear laundry)all designed to ward off slumps. These all were designed to avoid what happened to Hitler: keep your mind clear and ward off bad luck (and Nazis). It makes you wonder which is worse, suffering the Slump or suffering the delusions that keep you sane. Im generally skeptical of existential self-helpisms, especially in the mainstream media. Freshman year was an exciting time, but the return can be anti-climactic, writes USA Today College for
their primer on the Slump, in the ostensibly less-threatening College Version of the newspaper I was reading in middle school. Some of their shared wisdom includes Take a Step Back and Set Personal Goals. (I was compelled to trash the article, if only to follow Point 4: Do Something Physical.) The best advice on the Slump can actually be found on campus. MAPS is a Curricular Resource Program that pairs seniors with sophomores for special advising. Sitting in on a Sophomore Slump focus group, I heard pointers good enough to compel me to take notes, which is more than I can say for two of my three non-S/NC classes. Slump really hit me in the Spring, said one senior. It may be inevitable, but its a right of passage that made me so much happier on the other end, said another. The best: There are only two ways to try to deal with a serious Slump: reevaluating your priorities, or burnout. One sucks, the other sucks more. The suggestions were standard enough: manage your workload, join something new, reach out to professors. But the real value of the session for the sophomores seemed to be the therapeutic value of the collective dialogue. Still, as well-intended as these pointers are, few arent obvious; itd be easier to try new things and meet new people if there were time or energy. This simply underscores the most unnerving truth about the Slump: Pep-talks and new perspectives are really just window dressing on an unavoidable problem of the American college system. Sandwiched in between more notable years, sophomore year is simultaneously and silently packed with massive expectations of future success. For a fun drinking game, put down your Post- and discuss summer plans with a sophomore. Drink every time they use a filler. Like the palpable collective relief in the MAPS seminar room, the questionably psychological nature of the Slump has unavoidable psychological solutions. To that end, it might be healthier to just embrace the fact that sophomore year sucks more than the others, in all its sacred Slumpness. Setting low standards in general may seem self-demeaning, but only on the surface; you might feel better about yourself when your mind is quiet, before you go to bedand not on seven Tylenol PMs. This exclusive advice comes courtesy of our protagonist. I asked him how he shook off the bad year. First, you cant let it get in your head. Hes an athlete. I didnt ask about the laundry. But the second point was on the profound side. Just find and follow things that satisfy you, no different than any other year. Sophomore year is just an experience that makes it harder than usual to calibrate that. And do you think Slump is true? I asked. Whatever satisfies the soul is truth, wrote Whitman.
ly, while cheerfully admitting to sharing some of her same lowbrow interests and shallow tendencies. And she never apologizes for it. In an age when its not uncommon for us to have Academic Search Premier open in one tab while the latest episode of Jersey Shore is buffering in the other, its refreshing to have a figure with some public clout acknowledge the reality of our paradoxical, high-low, serious-silly natures. Kalings ability to be intelligent and accomplished without the pretentiousness oft associated with these characteristics doesnt make us hang without her, but rather makes us want to hang with her all the more. After all, who couldnt love a woman who tweets this: Im intimidated by people for whom tap water is not good enough at restaurants. With a follow-up: Im like lemme drink straight from the tap slurp slurp yum.
chological change over time, is back on the table. If anything, The Better Angels of our Nature uniquely provokes self-examination (relative to most other big-seller books out there). On at least half a dozen occasions, you will bristle with Pinkers treatment of a topic. Im just short of guaranteeing it. Maybe Im slow, but I was initially disconcerted by Pinkers move from discussing violence as a force across societies to addressing violence against animals. Theyre different categories; dont pull a fast one. Even so, I began to appreciate the nuance Pinker was evoking: That violence is still an expression of a certain cognitive disposition, whether or not its object is human, inanimate, or animal. I recognized Pinker sensitivity to the multiple levels of discourse and perspective that pervade a subject (towards which were all a little prejudiced.) This doesnt come without a price. Certain things may annoy you as they did me: Stephen Pinker has a habit of quoting Bob Dylan and 60s rock with a lilt of self-indulgent smugness, in the way that a father proving hes still cool wears Oakleys on Fridays and rocks out on the long route home after picking up his son and his friends up from school, when
all they wanted was to be hurried off to the theater and be left alone. Its cloying. Somewhat less frequently, too, Pinkers arguments make intense presuppositions. Treating big issues requires big claims. The historical section of the The Better Angels addresses few (if any) counterexamples. Its as if Pinkers arguments are so self-evident that they just need to manifest; not so, and surely smaller books/articles will rise up and quibble with many of his points. They will probably not, however, be as conversational as Pinkers work. Equally worth noting: The Better Angels will remain, for at least a while, the work to which other essays on violence will answer.
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Required Listening
Paul Baribeau: Ten Things Rosa: Milk Crates Mallory: Dissident Squinch Owl: Meet Me There Thy Courage Quail: Down Down Down Sons of an Illustrious Father: 240 Miles Wood Spider: Is It Strange? Blackbird Raum: Valkyrie Horsewhip Reel Dandelion Junk Queens: Growing Up is Giving Up The Hail Seizures: Daddy
holiday guide
Holiday Guide
Me Jane You Food
jane BRENDLINGER managing editor of lifestyle
Ive often thought of marrying just for the gift registry. Invite a whole bunch of guests, then go to town making my list at Williams-Sonoma. Top of the line products and all the equipment I could ever wish for, a kitchen ready to take on my wildest culinary dreams. Finding a fianc presents only a small obstacle; the more pertinent question is whether or not Id have to return the gifts if I canceled the sham wedding. Even a divorce after the ceremony might result in a division of kitchen assets. Though it seems like an alluring option, I cannot marry for love of stainless steel. Fortunately, its the holiday season, and Ive tried ever so hard to be good. Perhaps I wont get the complete influx of a wedding registry, and Ill have to wait on that stainless steel asparagus pot, but Im going to write a well-penned note to Santa with one or two requests. My wish list this year (heres hoping!): High Grade Chopping Knife You never know the value of a good knife until you find yourself without one. Chop an onion with a blunt blade, and you might as well be using the back of a spoon. Its not the onion thats making you cry. A quality knife, deftly maneuvered, brings speed and precision to a meals preparation. In a perfect world, Id be asking for Japanese steel: the Shun Fuji santoku knife, for instance, handcrafted with a tagayasan wood handle. But since that model runs at about $400, and I havent been quite that good, Id settle for anything sharp. Ice Cream Maker Why would a parent ever buy their daughter the Ben and Jerrys recipe book and not also buy an ice cream maker? What absolute torture its been all these years, reading page after page of thrilling flavors and never bringing such frozen dreams into reality. Ill pick up a recipe for gelato or sorbet, read the directions eagerly until I inevitably come to the words, Place mixture in ice cream maker and follow the manufacturers instructions. This Christmas, however, I will not be thwarted. I will have my homemade Cherry Garcia. Indoor Herb Garden Winter can be a long, harsh season, and its even more unbearable without fresh herbs. Though those summer days of knee-high basil plants are over, it is possible to grow your own potted varieties indoors, retaining a bit of lifes flavor until the sun comes back. Some starter plants would be nice: rosemary, thyme, micro basil. (Micro basil on a butternut squash pizza with fresh mozzarella=molto bene.) Piping tool (with attachments!) I once saw an old episode of Martha Stewart Living in which she makes a tiered wedding cake (or, you know, a tiered cake for any occasion). To decorate, she placed hand crafted marzipan fruits on the surface and piped tiny dots of white icing on every edge. I estimate that the project took 12 hours to complete. I can think of few people, myself included, who have that kind of time to spend on something edible. After making the third marzipan fruit, I probably would have said, F*ck this and eaten a slice of cake.
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lifestyle editor
people and the culture that I love this time of year, and that is my familys fervent celebration of Christmas as the birth of Jesus Christ. Even as I write this paragraph, my hand subconsciously rises to the diamond cross I always wear around my neckand I find myself confused. Why am I wearing this? Well, Im not really sure. Especially this time of year, I am reminded of the fact that I dont believe in God (well, I dont think I do ... Lets go with agnosticism over atheism here), and that the rest of my family does. To the rest of my family, Christmas is truly a sacred time. Midnight Mass, in the Greek Orthodox community, is not a joke: its a solid three hours of specialized Christmas ceremony heralding the birth of the savior. To make it more complicated, my family happens to be rather prominent in the Greek Orthodox community: its not In high school, Christmas used to make me exceedingly sad. I was in that theres-no-God-and-when-we-die-itseternal-nothingness stage (pleasant, I know), and I couldnt shake the terror that came with that idea, nor could I handle being constantly reminded of that fear with every seemingly empty Christmas carol. I remember crying, many times, sitting by the fire and the Christmas tree, trying to figure out the point of this holiday and wondering why I couldnt enjoy the comforts of faith like everyone else in my family. Luckily for me, Ive been out of high school for a few years. Im not listening to Avenged Sevenfold anymore. Yet, this year at Christmastime, I still find myself struggling, trying to strike a delicate balance between embracing the traditions of my religious family while still being able to enjoy what I love about Christmas: decorating the tree and fighting over ornament placement with my sister, dressing up for the Boston Pops with my parents, smelling spanakopita baking in my grandparents kitchen, coming home and seeing my closest friends, spending time picking out the perfect gifts, no matter how small, to make my friends and family smile. Maybe these joys arent as profound as the joys of mans desiring, but Ill take em, and Ill take my big fat Greek Christmas, too.
To be fair to my mom, Im only half Greek. However, due to the dubious ancestry on my maternal side and the overwhelming nature of my fathers huge family, Ive always identified as decidedly Greek. Ever seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Take that scenario, reverse the bride and groom, and you have my parents marriage Although it is becoming less and less en vogue to admit my particular ancestry as my brethren bring down the European economy, I have always considered my heritage an important part of my life. It has been a wonderful experience to grow up in a family that is able to preserve old world traditions and appreciate and maintain a rich culture. Even though I envied my elementary school friends as they ran off to play when the bell rang and I went off to Greek school, and even though my grandparents will never understand that being a vegetarian means that no, I wont eat lamb, even on holidays, I love my big (and mostly, not fat) Greek family. However, there is a certain time of year that, as Ive grown older, has made it more and more difficult for me to reconcile with my familys past, and thats the holidaysChristmas. There are many ways that I differ from my family members: Im blonde (no idea how those genes won), Im a vegetarian, etc. However, theres one thing that makes me feel especially alienated from the
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holiday guide
POST-
Holiday Memories
amelia STANTON, jennifer HARLAN, zo HOFFMAN, and charles PLETCHER
Theres nothing quite like the annual Christmas party at the National Arts Club. An institution that claims to stimulate, foster, and promote public interest in the arts and educate the American people in the fine arts, the National Arts Club is really just a fancy space (the Tilden Mansion) in a fancy part of New York City (Gramercy Park). The club may provide scholarships to aspiring young artists, but its primarily concerned with its roster. Past and present members include Theodore Roosevelt, Frederic Remington, and Uma Thurman. My grandmother, whose third husband occasionally dabbled in watercolors, is also a card-carrying member. What a gift, she has often said, to be in the presence of such beauty. The Christmas party, complete with Nutcracker excerpt, is a membership perk. Couples come with their children, who eagerly wait for Santa. For each child who expects a present from Santa, a family member donates a gift, which will then be given to another child. To secure my present, my mother provided various gifts over the years: Barbie dolls, toy trucks, beading kits. Kid stuff. The year that I randomly, miraculously received a Madame Alexander doll (which can retail for as much as $749.95, as in the case of the Some Like it Hot Tony Curtis as Josephine/Joe 21-inch Collectible Doll) from the pile was the same year that my mother got hit in the eye with a yo-yo while watching the entrance of the Rat King. A six-year-old boy was unlucky enough to receive a mere yo-yo from Santa. In a moment of frustration, he thought he would give around the world a whirl. And then he hit my mother. She fell backwards out of her chair, out of her shoes, and onto the floor. I envision my seven-year-old self staring down at her, wishing that someone would just pull her skirt back down. Blood gushing from her eye, she was carried out of the room by a pack of men, holding her above their heads as they might lug wooden beams. She yelled down to me in muffled, gurgled sounds: The shoes! Get the shoes! I held them with purpose. My grandmother and I stood there; she with her scotch, me with my mothers shoes. We held on tight. The yo-yo incident of 98 was handled with discretion and care, as all club-related matters are. At the urging of my grandmother, my mother agreed not to sue the parents of the rogue yo-yoer in exchange for full compensation of medical bills and lifetime V.I.P membership to Wave Hill, a famed public garden and cultural center in the affluent residential neighborhood of Riverdale, home to New York Citys most elite private schools. What a gift, my grandmother said, to be in the presence of nature. AS My family is big on holiday traditions, especially the decorating of the Christmas tree. While college finals and commuting work schedules have forced us to move the date of this momentous occasion up from mid-December to Thanksgiving weekend, the principle remains the same. We go down to the nearest public high school, where men in grimy sweatshirts have sequestered a corner of the field and covered it with chubby evergreens. We spend a good half hour fighting over which tree to take home, each family member lobbying for a particular height or shape and viciously pointing out the gaping holes and lackluster needles of the others contenders. The winner, usually chosen in a frustrated abandonment of the democratic process by my totalitarian parents, is loaded on top of the car and driven home. My dad and brother place the tree in the stand, securing the top of it to the wall (we wouldnt want a repeat of the Toppling Tree Catastrophe of 2010), while my mom, sister, and I begin unpacking the ornaments. This is a sacred ritual in the Harlan house. We thrust eager hands into the plastic boxes before us, peeling open worn paper towels to reveal treasured old friends. Each unwrapping is met with gleeful cries: My Clara! My racecar! The pickle! After each ornament has been unwrapped and placed carefully on the dining room table, the decorating begins. Each family member selects a favorite ornament, my dad puts on Nat King Cole, and as the first violins strain from the speakers we slip metal hooks onto virgin branches. Cole drifts into Crosby, who leads into Streisand and Peter, Paul, & Mary. We crank up Little Drummer Boy, and my mom leaves the room in protest. Slowly the mountain on our dining room table diminishes, until each painted handprint and glass ball has been placed on a branch. My sister and I lie on the floor as The Christ-
mas Song starts again, and, eyes all aglow, we stare up into the lights. Its beginning to look a lot like Christmas. JH Walk by my living room window in late December and youll be sure to catch an awe-inspiring sight: Hoffman Hanukkah. Growing up Jew-ish, I would brag to my friends about the eight additional presents (the fact that they were usually books was inconsequential) that I received on top of my Christmas haul. The price I paid for this extra swag? Embarrassingly inaccurate Hanukkah traditions. When I was younger, my father retained some semblance of a connection to his historically accurate Jewish ancestry. We would attend a Hanukkah party where guests chanted real prayers, children played dreidel for gelt, and the food was kosher. Eventually, however, the parties stopped (perhaps the invitations were lost in the mail), and we were left to our own devices. Herein began our yearly holiday celebrations. The night begins with prying my father from a college basketball game and demanding his immediate presence at my grandmothers antique menorah. My Methodist-raised mother heads to her trusty drawer of Jewish knowledge and pulls out a tattered childrens coloring book with the Hanukkah prayers spelled out phonetically on the back pages. As I light the blue and white candles, my father mutters rusty Hebrew left over from his Bar Mitvah days while my mother stumbles along with her off key recitation. I confidently chant my memorized verse, priding myself on my own excellent rhythm and pronunciation. After the candles are lit, its time for the Hora. We tend to borrow the version taught in my elementary school, rendered slightly more ridicu-
lous by the fact that the size of the group has shrunk to only three. And the small children have been replaced by legal adults. We dont rely on pre-fabricated background music, choosing instead to grunt and hum our way through Hava Nagila. We increase the tempo as we grapevine faster and faster until we end with a dramatic crescendo. I open my present (wrapped in one of the two Hanukkah-themed wrapping papers offered at Barnes & Noble), and the evenings festivities end. The festivities have lagged during my college years, usually prevented by my finals schedule. This year, however, Hanukkah comes latejust in time for my arrival and eight more crazy nights. ZH My mom and I have made a habit of going to Mass together on Christmas Eve. Both of us were raised Catholic, but shes since abandoned the Church for Protestantism, and Ive sincewell, not abandoned, but more qualified my religion. None of this matters come Christmas Eve. Then, everythings about beauty. One year, we thought it would be a good idea to attend a Latin Christmas Eve Massfor beauty, you know. Im from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where Im pretty sure that Latin Masses equal High Dutch Amish Christmas services in number. The previous few years, wed gone to more conventional Masses: an exuberant priest, a tenor who couldnt quite make the highest notes in his solo, and obliging congregants who didnt notice the tenors missed notes. The Latin Mass had none of these trappings. Im not complainingthe absence of that tenor (hes there every f*cking year) was more than welcome but Im warning you. Lancastrians apparently dont do the whole Church Latin thing. The priests diction was abysmal; the congregations was worse. Where we had gone looking for beauty, we found a bastardization of the some of the oldest attestations of Christianity. I dont mean just to quibble about pronunciation. Sure, Im a classicist, but I dont do Latin (and I treat Church Latin like the plague). Christmas is a season for hope. I genuinely wanted the Latin Mass to instill in me some confidence in the inherent beauty of being human. I was nave to expect so much of mere language. Christmasthe holiday season, if you willis, after all, about community. The language of the homilys delivery matters little. The beautiful thing about Christmas is the reunion of old friendships, old traditions (even with their erroneous (Latin) manifestations), and old locations. Christmas is about familiarity. Age and familiarity should, of course, not be conflated. The break from the hustle of school and work should remind us of the obligation we have to each other regardless of vernacular. Language is the MacGuffin of the holidays. Enjoy family, frienddo what you will. But whatever you do, dont go to Latin Mass. CP
Youre still with us?!? Oh, that is so great. We are so excitedand surprised!but mostly excited. Well, keep reading. You havent even gotten to Sexicon yet, and we promise, you wont be disappointed.
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holiday guide
POST-
Holidotica
MM sexpert
The editors of Post- would like to instruct all parents and special friends to stop reading now. Lady Gaga didnt invent Holidotica, but she sure popularized it. Christmas Tree, her rendition of Deck the Halls that came out in 2008, appropriates classic holiday melodies in an extended three-minute sexual innuendo. Inspired by her artistry, and by the nearness of the holidays, I leave you with a composition expressing my wishes of peace, joy, and silicone phalluses for your vacation. Heres my adaptation of Clement Moores classic poem, A Visit From St. Dickolas. Twas the night before Clitmas, when through the abode Not a penis was stirring, not even a choad. Out by the chimney, the fishnets were flung, In hopes that St. Dickolas was, like a horse, hung. The children were shut up all snug in their beds, With filial ignorance filling in their heads. While Ma with her dildo, and I with my clamps, Were waiting to get us some Santa Claus ass. When out on the lawn we heard he had landed, That fat, sassy, kinky virginity bandit. Wed got ourselves wet just waiting for him, So when he arrived we all jumped right in.
n. a nascent genre of fiction in which authors convert wholesome holiday texts into bodiceripping erotica; see also: Kwanzarotica, Hannukarotica, Easterotica, Modernism
made only of medical-grade silicone! The vibrator sparkled, the lubricant dripped, the flogger was leather, and so was the whip! The edible panties with a hole in the back were the last treat he pulled from his sex-toy-stuffed sack. Then he approached us, whipped cream on his belly, and nutsack a-jiggle like a bowl full of jelly! But when Ma got between us, my front to her back, Santa said, What a foolhardy, normative act! Dont get me wrong, I think women are fun, But Id never put my peen in one. And that being said, he bent over my butt and put his hand round my ol you-know-what. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And finished me off, then came with a jerk. And pulling his member out of my bod, He shot up the chimney with only a nod! He yelled as he left to his bitch-ass reindeer, Lets quit this scene fore the cops show up here. But he hollered on back, ere he drove out of sight, Happy Clitmas to all, and to all a good-night!
The moon on the snow like a big areola And that beard as long as the old Ayatollahs, When, what to my watering eyes should appear, But that bestial bro brought his fleet of reindeer. And though he was small, I was quickly surprised, to find St. Dicks dick also caribou-sized. More rapid than NASCAR his shaft grew engorged, As he called by name to his whole antlered horde: Now Spanky! now, Juicy! now, Maxim and Vixen! On, Bambi! On, Vikki! On Peaches and Bitchin! Assume the discussed circle-jerking formation! Its Clitmas Eve and these folks want some action! But then he climbed up, the incurable fop, With his posse of reindeer to the roof-top, Pulling a pimp-mobile stuffed full of toys, For all of the naughty lists bad girls and boys. While down on the ground, Ma, still getting randy, cried, Come down here, Santa, and show me your man-meat! We started canoodling when I heard a sound like a cum-shot explosion, so I turned around. Santa had somehow descended the smokestack and stood right behind me, opening his pack. When he brought out a cock-ring, I felt myself moan
Emily Post-s