Christmas In July

Essay by PaperNerd ContributorCollege, Undergraduate February 2001

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Christmas in July.

These days we live in may in fact be real. However, I fail to see how these nights could have ever happened. Ever.

I watched a blue jay get impaled by a putter° that day. Then get chipped eight feet into the side of the neighbor's house. For some reason it was funny to me; a bird getting putted by a crazy red-haired bastard with a cigarette struck me as something to laugh at. The loud tanned kid with mutant fingers saw it, but he wasn't wearing a shirt. The corpse rotted next to that house for the next week. We just flicked cigarettes at it.

The grill was hot; ready to cook a chunk of meat of any size, with any garnish, and from any origin. The black grill with Penis etched on the handle fell under the "˜stolen or given to' category, like three quarters of our house.

Maybe more.

(Future reference: item° = "˜stolen or given to') The meat° tasted good, but would more than likely make my shit sink straight to the bottom of the bowl.

I think there might have been a barrel° that night, maybe a few cases of the lady on the moon°, maybe even an enhanced glass of V8°. I can't remember. I do remember sitting on our picnic table° - which should have been repainted a month ago "“ with some strange intoxicated citizens were smoking bud and wanted to share. It was the bud that created the idea. It was an idea powered by faith, backed by the birth of Jesus Christ. We needed a Christmas tree. Not in December, but now. It was going to be a symbol for all those who visited Mr. Daniels in the quest for intoxicants: "We like buddy Christ, and we fucking rule." It manifested into a working plan faster than any motivated college student could ever accomplish. Our shit was together. An orange handled saw° was in the fist of a known Level 9 Ultima Online Fighter in a matter of seconds. Other random drunks raised their glasses° and shouted gibberish in support of this holy crusade. I ran inside and grabbed my small device used for freezing moments in time only to exploit them at a later date. I think I was wearing shoes° at the time as well.

Where would the holiest out-of-season Christmas tree come from? Not even our drunken cruise captain would know that. Neighbors that may have been awake and creeping would have witnessed 4 shadowed figures stroll down the middle of the road; nowhere near a straight line, then suddenly stop and stare in the direction of a 9 foot Austrian Pine.

It seemed to glow when I saw it, and I knew it was the one. So did the man with the saw°. He attacked the tree like it was Charlie himself, laughing and sawing at the same time. I flashed a few pictures, and the tree came crashing down. We ran like bandits across the blacktop, carrying our Divine symbol of Drunkenness°. The scenery changed into the backyard of some upstanding civilian's property - when the good turned bad. I flashed a would-be-classic picture of infamous delinquents running with a pine tree under their arm. The next thing I knew I was recognizing the ground pressed on my face, and the sense of an incredible force at my 6. I pushed myself up slowly and turned around like a beaten hero in a classic action film; bloody lip included. I squared myself to the evil force and stared him in the eye. I could feel his strength growing as he violently explained his disgust in the fact that his fucking tree had been cut down. Combat was going to be needed to fix this mess; an epic battle between good and evil, like it always has been.

The Bad Man drew first blood with a shot to my ribs followed by a fist to my upper cheekbone. It would leave damage that can still be seen today. I countered with a knee to his gut and a Chuck Norris Chop to the back of his neck. This attack only strengthened the Bad Man; his attack rating was almost three times mine. I was fucked. I had a flashback to every street fighter game I ever played, and remembered the roundhouse It had taught me. But where the fuck was the kick button? The Bad Man took advantage of my confusion and unleashed a fury of attacks powered by hate and anger; most likely built up from way back in '59 when his Dad would whip him with a fishing pole. I blocked the first wave, but was critically damaged by the second. He got me with a Russian Leg-Sweep and I found myself detained on the ground eating pine needles and dirt. I had visions of those damn afternoon anime cartoons. I had failed my ancestors and failed to bring home the sacred Hiroyosami tree from the grand master's lair. The Bad Man did not react well to my comments about his prowess and tremendous physique at this time of night, represented by the tightening of the double arm bar I was being punished with. I couldn't move without use of my arms, and the knee to the back of my skull made it less likely for escape. I figured this would be the end of me; this would be my final moment in the adventure I lived in. The Bad Man was going to kill me because I scuffed his puma's, and no one was going to stop him. Until a porch light flipped on, lighting the back yard We had battled in, and an old man wobbled out of the back door. The Bad Man let up on his Irish Death Grip, but only enough to yell things to this new figure in the battle field. Things relating to the police being called, and that he "caught the fucker." I watched the old man comply, and turn around in his blue bathrobe to walk back into his house. Also, to my disbelief, I noticed a hammer hanging from his right hand. What the fuck was going on? This couldn't be real. The old man was obviously in with the Bad Man. They probably spent Sunday afternoons together; kicking back in lawn chairs throwing lawn darts at squirrels. This chain of events had gone from a disaster to a full-blown fuck up.

I fought the good fight, and lost. The Bad Man gave me a few cheap shots to the face before the police came, then turned me in for the reward. The cops showed no mercy; interrogating me late into the morning - the communist fucks didn't even let me smoke a cigarette. I deserved the punishment I received: every kick, punch, fine and ticket. I crossed a line that no man should ever step over: don't Fuck with another man's Christmas tree.

The Bad Man beat me no matter how you look at it. He has bragging rights, and he has no scars. He got a story; I got a humiliating memory. He won the battle, won it by force, but the Bad Man did not win the war.

I know where he lives. Probation only lasts a year.