By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Illustration by Bob AulSprawling sleepily on a mall bench on my break from a coffeehouse inside, I was recently treated to the kind of Christmas greeting I might have expected in Manhattan: "I hope you're comfortable, asshole." I was recovering from a 12-hour holiday marathon shift, and you—a snotty little (really little) yuppie with a bottle-blond girlfriend—apparently thought I was taking up too much space on the bench. I guess "Excuse me, Miss, may we sit here?" would have taken altogether too much effort.
I wonder still if it was your mother I ran into in the parking lot—a woman whose facial features I can't remember now, except for the sneer contorting her face as she saw the bumper stickers on my car. Yeah, I drive around with real offensive stuff, like "Go Vegetarian." But whatever. The point is she apparently wanted my space and had this extra-special Christmas message for me as she drove away: "Nice car, bitch!" Same to you—I really liked the Jesus stickers.
There's still time to change, of course. With a few hours left before the holiday, if you must leave the house, don't forget your fucking Christmas spirit.
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