One more Christmas post.

There are many things in life we don’t get to choose.

How tall we are.

Our eye color.

Your ugly ass feet.

Who your parents are. Who your aunts and uncles are. Your grandparents. Your cousins. Your second cousins. Your siblings. And the people they chose to marry.

Certain traditions, such as the tradition of spending the holidays with the family. Whether you chose to honor that tradition, well, that is your choice.

I chose to spend the holidays with my family because my family is funny as hell and this is why I am the way I am.

Overheard at the family Christmas Eve party:

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You just showed up for a blog post. — No, I just love Christmas, dick.

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Did she just say she loves dick?

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What’s that picture you guys are passing around? — Me, making out with your mom. You want to see?

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Does Grandma give you a chub?

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Grandma told me she didn’t sleep with Grandpa before marriage. She let him get really far but she never let him go all the way.  — Oh. Well, I did.

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Do you need me to rub it? Your knee, not your weenie. 

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She’s got wet lips. — Like, on her face?

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Did she just tell all of us to shift or shit?

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There’s a hair in my food! — At least it’s not a short and curly.

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Can I try your drink? — Sure, hon. — Mmm, it’s good! — Your auntie’s going DOWN!

____________

I said I needed HELP! Are you getting hard?

____________

Seriously, quit rubbing your ass on me. You’re my aunt.

____________

KIDS! She’s drunk! She’s grabbing me!

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Tell him to take a shit in the basement bathroom. It’s quiet and it’s a place where he can really spread his legs out. Top notch.

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He’s kinda picky with beer. He only likes Bud Light. — But he’s 5.

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Who is Saint Nicholas, anyway? — It’s me! My name is Nick! — BULLSHIT. You ain’t no saint.

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SANTA’S HERE, KIDS! — Some jackass kid just asked why Santa walked through the front door instead of sliding down the chimney.

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Santa only named off eight reindeer in his poem. — That’s because this poem was written in the 1800s. Rudolph didn’t show up until the 1960s. — Do you read every night? You seem like you read a lot. — Are you hitting on my wife? That’s incest.

____________

You’re going to be Santa in like 30 years. — No. No, I’m not going to get chubby.

____________

Just put the beer cap by the spindles on the stairs. They won’t see it until next year.

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I don’t know anyone on that side of the room. Should I know them?

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That box is tight! — STOP TALKING LIKE THAT. — What? It is!

____________

Watch this. Go say his girlfriend’s name out loud and watch his crotch slowly move up.

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Where are the lesbians tonight? — They’re at mass praying for all of us and Saint Tits.

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Where’s your mom? — She’s at home, sick. — She’s lying to you. She’s hungover because she went to the Chiefs game.

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No, YOU get your tubes tied! I ain’t gettin’ snipped. — Ask my aunt how that worked out for her. My uncles sperm made the jump over and she still got pregnant and almost died. True story. — Hell yeah, my fuckers can fly!

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He beats up his brother and calls him a motherfucker. — Oh my gosh! Doesn’t he get in trouble at school? — Shit, he’s only 5. He’s not in school yet.

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Hey, let’s send your dad a selfie of us. Do you think it will show up on his flip phone? Hey, we’re good lookin’! — THAT’S INCEST.

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I better see my name in lights on your blog after this night. — But you’re an in-law.

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I called 911 because my son locked himself in the house. I had to tell the operator he has Downs so they’d realize he’s not a normal 3-year-old. — How did the emergency responders gets in? — Well, they opened up the backdoor because apparently I left that door unlocked. Then the door opened where I was standing. They were holding my son and giving him high-fives.

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You should come down to the houseboat this summer! Here’s some pics of us last year. Here we are passed out in a circle on the top deck. — You look like a dead cult.

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Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram.

And don’t forget to buy my book, “But Did You Die?”

 

 

 

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