Category Archives: Christmas

Where Santa Came From


So, I got to wondering yesterday about where Santa came from. I mean, everybody has to have a back story, right? This is my theory…

I believe Santa was one of the top angels in charge along with Lucifer. Santa and Luci were like, really close, and one day Lucifer was like, “Yo, Santa! Did you ever notice how this God dude just thinks He’s the shit, and we have to listen to everything He says? What does He think He is, anyway? The general manager of Heaven? I’m not getting paid enough to worship His power-hungry ass 24/7. I’m just as cool as he is, and better looking too. What d’ya say we blow this popsicle stand and find some of our OWN subjects. There’s like, this whole world down there with people just waiting to do bad stuff. We can go get all them.”

Santa thought about it, and since he was kinda weak, he shrugged and said, “OK, I guess that sounds better than just fuckin’ around here all day. Living in perfection gets old after awhile. ”

So off they went, covorting on earth until God decided enough was enough. God snapped his fingers and BAM. There Santa and Lucifer were standing in His presence.

“What do you think you two are doing?!” God thundered. “I made this world and I’m in charge. You think you had it rough flying around all day having nothing to do other than praise Me? I’ll show you what rough is, you little punks. Lucifer, I always knew you were a bad seed, I just didn’t want to believe it. You wanted power? Well, here you go. You can have whatever little fuckers on earth that don’t appreciate my general Awesomeness. All you gotta do is turn ’em to the dark side. And since you decided to be such a prick, I’m gonna let you live in a burning lake of fire for all eternity. Oh, and one more thing. NO MORE WINGS!”

God turned and was about to curse Santa with being Lucifer’s right hand man, and Santa panicked. He didn’t want to spend ALL of eternity in a lake of fire. So he sputtered and pointed at Lucifer and said, “It was all him, God! He made me do it! It wasn’t my idea.”

God narrowed his eyes at Santa and said, “You know what? I believe it. You are wayyy too weak and simple-minded to have gone against him. So you know what you get to do? You get the job of delivering presents on Jesus’ birthday to all the good kids on earth. I won’t make you live in the Firey Lake, but you are hereby banished to the North Pole. I can’t get anything to grow there, and there’s all these little happy people that live there called elves. I think being forced to be jolly for eternity is Hell enough.” God ran his fingers through his beard and thought for a minute. “I suppose if I take your wings away, you’re not going to have any way to deliver presents. But if I let you keep them, there’s no assurance that this won’t happen again. So, I guess I’m going to have to give you some flying reindeer. Oh, and once you get to the North Pole, you’re gonna be old. It wouldn’t look right if a hot young dude brought presents to kids.”

So Lucifer went to Hell, and Santa went to the North Pole.

Once he got there, he was surrounded by elves, which he found out were just midget orphans that nobody wanted. He decided he would adopt them, as long as they earned their keep, and since he had all those presents to make, he put them to work.

After a few Christmases, Santa was getting pretty horny, so he went back to visit God.

“God, I know I sinned and all, but I’m really frickin’ horny, and you DID say it wasn’t good for man to be alone. Soooo, I was just wondering if maybe you could , ya know, hook me up with a chic or something? Oh, and I adopted all these midget kids, and they kinda need a mom.” He added that last part just to look good.

God thought about it, and then said, “Aright, What the Hell. There’s this little place in Nevada that’s got chics that will do you for money. If you go there and pick one out, I’ll make it so she comes to live with you.”

So Santa went down to the Bunny Ranch, and found this chic who wasn’t super hot, but she was really super-duper nice, and she couldn’t have kids, so she ended up as a whore because there was nothing to be responsible for. Santa paid her, ‘cuz he wanted to try her out first, and she was AMAZING in bed. He went back to God and told Him he found a girl.

God brought Daisy (that was her hooker name) up to Heaven and sat her down. He said, “OK, Daisy. You can’t have kids. I made it that way because I knew this dumbshit was going to fuck up.” He waved his hand at Santa and rolled his eyes. “You’re a really sweet girl, and you know you shouldn’t be fuckin’ around at the Bunny Ranch. So, since I know you don’t like it there anyway, you get to go live with this guy. The downfall is you’re gonna look old, so the elves don’t think Santa is your sugar daddy. But you get to live forever and have a bunch of midget kids, which is what you really want anyway.”

Daisy was thrilled at the prospect of having kids to take care of (because she had a mothering instinct) so her and Santa got married and off they went. Daisy took care of the elves, but Santa realized God had made her so motherly, she treated HIM like a kid too, so anytime Santa was horny, he would yell, “Ho! Ho!Ho!” to remind Daisy that she had, in fact, been a ho, and a damn good one too, which was why he picked her.

Santa has grown resigned to the idea of flying around the world every Christmas Eve.

The End

 

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The 12 Days of Christmas (Sparklebumps Style)


On the first day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

a boner-er in my coochie.

On the second day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

two stillettos and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the third day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

three french fries, two stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

four brand new books, three french fries, two stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! Four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

six sparkly dresses, FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

seven girls in g-strings, six sparkly dresses, FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the eight day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

eight rides in Mustangs, seven girls in g-strings, six sparkly dresses, FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

nine booby squeezes, eight rides in Mustangs, seven girls in g-strings, six sparkly dresses, FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

ten bags of candy, nine booby squeezes, eight rides in Mustangs, seven girls in g-strings, six sparkly dresses, FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

eleven bras from Frederick’s, ten bags of candy, nine booby squeezes, eight rides in Mustangs, seven girls in g-strings, six sparkly dresses, FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and a boner-er in my coochie.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my Rockstar gave to me

twelve lovely spankings, eleven bras from Frederick’s, ten bags of candy, nine booby squeezes, eight rides in Mustangs, seven girls in g-strings, six sparkly dresses, FIVE OR-GAS-EMS! four-er brand new books, three french fries, two-wo stillettos, and one Chris Me-lon-i!!!!!!!!!

P.S. There was no other way for me to fit Chris in there. Believe me, I tried.

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It DOES Get Worse (Otherwise Entitled : Search Terms 4)


You guys have to let me know if this is getting old. I myself am still greatly disturbed by the fucked up search terms people use to get to my blog:

Anatomically correct young girl dolls: My question is- Are these dolls used for educational purposes only? I certainly hope so.

My wife Christmas sex present: If sex is what your wife is planning on giving you for Christmas, Dude, I say “Congrats”. Although this does make me wonder is she gives it to you the rest of the year. If YOU were the one planning on giving the sex, you may want to at least put a bow on your dick; otherwise she’s going to think that you didn’t put much thought into it. (You’re welcome, Dude’s Lady) On the other hand, if you were looking to receive my services as a gift from your wife, I will need a current picture of you and a credit card number from your Black Amex. And french fries.

Disney princess is a whore: I wonder what gave them a clue. The fact that Belle moved in with a guy (or a beast if you want to look at it in an even worse light) after just meeting him, Jasmine’s harem outfit, or the fact that Snow White lived with 7 guys at once? I’m sorry, I cannot say anything bad about Ariel. (She is my favorite.)

Fat woman shitting, tubes: I just don’t even know what to say to this…  *shiver*

Cute girls fucked: This read like an advertisement, don’t you think? “Cute girls fucked here! Only seven dolla!” Ok, in all honesty, there is no pictures of cute girls getting fucked on my blog, but come on…. I talk about getting fucked all the time. There has to be a connection.

What Santa thinks I’m naughty or mean: Although the wording makes no sense to me (anyone else?) I am quite certain if Santa could see into the depths of my soul, he would be greatly disturbed to find a half-smoked cigar, numerous alcohol bottles (empty of course), a little white lie or two, and girl-on-girl porn. I think it depends on who you ask whether those things are naughty…

Santa cartoon porn: I hate to disappoint whoever was led to my blog looking for nudeys of Santa. However, if this exists, it may be the leverage I need to get what I want from St. Nick.

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A Few of My Favorite Things


In the holiday spirit, I have composed the following post to be sung to the tune of the song My Favorite Things. If you feel like greatly disturbing those holiday shoppers the next time you’re in public, I greatly urge you to start singing this:

Sparkles and dildos and shiny stilettos,

French fries and mustangs and posts about book hos,

Ben-wa balls and whatever else Santa will bring,

These are a few of my favorite things.

 

Purple and kisses and hugs gotten from strangers,

That last one might put me a little in danger,

Dolly and Audrey and that Marilyn,

These are a few of my favorite things.

 

Music and Rockstars and Rockstar’s’s boners,

I really don’t like that my Brother’s a stoner, (sorry, I couldn’t think of anything else that rhymed. But it’s true)

Please pull my hair when you’re ready to come,

And I’ll be very pissed if you drink all the rum.

Chorus:

When I’m horny,

When I’m lonely,

When I’m feeling down,

I simply remember the sex from last night,

And then I no longer frown.

 

Blowjobs and brunettes and hot Chris Meloni,

I know if he met me he’d never let go of me.

Riding my Rockstar til his balls are blue,

These are a few of the things that I’ll do.

 

Charlie Sheen since he fell off the wagon,

Hot karls, blumpkins, and gross angry dragons,

Dirty sanchezes and glass-bottom boats,

These are a few of the things that I won’t.

Chorus:

When I’m crazy,

When I’m bonkers,

When I’m feeling bad,

I simply remember my favorite things,

And then I don’t feel so mad.

THE END

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A Perfect Christmas Story


So, I am much to tired today to write anything witty at this point, so instead, I will tell you what my Christmas would be like if I was not who I turned out to be and life was the way I used to imagine I wanted it to be.

On Christmas Eve, my five boys (their names are Gavin, Riggs, Joey, Andy, and Westley)  would get all dressed up in their dinosaur and Xmen jammies and we would get situated in front of the TV and watch It’s A Wonderful Life while eating Christmas cookies and other assorted bad-for-you Christmas foods. My boys would grumble and say, “Mom! Why can’t we watch Home Alone instead?!” and I would respond, “Because Life is wonderful, Honeys, and you need to realize that. You’ll appreciate this movie someday.”

When the movie got to the end where Jimmy Stewart rushes home to his family, my eyes would well up with tears and my very handsome husband would grab my hand and hold it discreetly, so our boys wouldn’t say, “EWWWW! Dad, gross!” After the movie ended, the boys would jump up, excited at the prospect of Santa, and we would set out some cookies (Oreos) and milk, and a cherry- flavored cigar for him.

Each child would be allowed to open just ONE present, even though they would beg to open them all. They would take many minutes shaking each one and trying to decide which to open.

I’d then herd the boys off to bed and read them How the Grinch Stole Christmas (because Dr. Seuss is awesome), and then kiss their heads and tell them to go to sleep.

My perfect husband and I would then proceed to have awesome sex- the really naughty kind.

The next morning, my boys would come bouncing on our bed, crying, “Wake up! It’s Christmas! Presentspresentspresents!!!!” My beautiful husband and I would drag ourselves out of bed and to the living room, where our upside-down tree was. I would then don my pink Santa hat and pass out the presents. Besides for toys, each son would receive one book, which he would be thrilled about because I have instilled the love of books into my children.

My hubby would hand me a gift, also a book, and just the right one, because he had taken the time to find out what I have and haven’t read, and would have bought the newest book that came out that I had refused to buy because of the new sticker price. I would give him a gift, too- a much-wanted guitar or tickets to an awesome concert, and sex coupons, of course, which we would have to hide quickly when the boys said, “Mom, what are those?”

After the present opening, there would be piles of wrapping paper EVERYWHERE, and we would sit and watch our children play with their newly begotten treasures. There would be no family Christmas to have to rush to, because both of our families have decided it was smarter to celebrate on different days, to leave this day for us.

Fairy tales are fun, aren’t they?

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Slightly Less Creepy Search Terms


Just when I thought I’d never have any more search terms to write about, there happened to be enough to do a third installment. There are not as sick and twisted (mostly) but some are very funny:

Paint his toenails: OK, I know this isn’t that weird, but it IS a habit I believe every girlfriend should develop. If he won’t let you, do it while he’s sleeping.

Dear Santa, got treats: Yes, I do. However, I do not think my Rockstar would wish me to allow Santa to motorboat on my “treats”.

Blow dry asshole: I realize this is in reference to the post I did about my Rockstar’s strange grooming habit, but when you read it like this, it sounds like a strange and wonderful new super hero- “DA da da DAAA! It’s the Blow Dry Asshole! Be careful, Villians! He’s going to… blow dry you!” That one needs pictures..

Stephanie Meyer shame: I think this is a new phrase I should patent and give to anyone rude enough to write horrid books that make lots of moneys.

I’m really sorry to hear about your job termination: Yes, I was too. But I’m over it now. I wonder if their sales are down immensely yet…

Meloni sex: this could be the term I use when I’m imagining Chris during… oh, nevermind.

Sparkle teen model my fruits: I’m not quite sure what to say to this one. I don’t really want to know WHO’S fruits they are.

Has Taylor Swift lost her virginity: There’s no way to know for sure, but do you really think she’d be so angry at that Jonas boy otherwise?

Book road at rainbow’s end: this sounds like it could either be the next installment of Pirate’s of the Carribbean, or a perfect name for my used bookstore.

Tube porn babysex: of course I couldn’t end with at least ONE completely fucked up search term. To this, all I have to say is, “You sick fucker.”

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In the Spirit of Christmas


I found out today that even spam can be Christmassy. (Sort of)

As I checked my junk emails this morning, I should have known when the subject line “Stuff her stocking!” flashed before my eyes that the subject matter would be rated higher than PG. I was not fully prepared for the upsetting question that would be posed to me when I clicked to open it, however.

“Do you want to get laid for Christmas?”

As I have pointed out on numerous occassions, most certainly I would like to get laid, whether it be Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, or Sadie Hawkins Day. Be that as it may, putting the ideas of naked fun time and Christmas in the same sentence greatly disturbs me.

I am well aware of such offensive Christmas songs as Merry Christmas, Darling and Santa’s Got a Brand-New Bag. Perhaps it is the quote, “Remember the Reason for the Season” being drilled into my head as a child, but I highly doubt Baby Jesus would find people copulating a satisfactory birthday present.  I am less offended by the song Santa Baby, (because Eartha Kitt is awesome) unless of course it is the hideous Jessica Simpson version playing.

It is well known that my sexual explicity content is quite high. However, for my own personal preference, Christmas may be the one time when I shan’t mention boom boom.

The second part of my spam email that got me thinking was the link provided to me after they indecently asked if I wanted a boner in my stocking. It contained the words “date-aholic.” I suppose it depends on who you ask, but I was under the impression that “dates” were the occassions when a boy picks you up, takes you out to a nice dinner, maybe a movie, holds your hand, and kisses you on your front stoop at the end of the night. I am sure this has changed slightly with the times, but I’m pretty sure a date still includes some semblance of wining and dining. So why all the mystery? Instead of using “date-aholic” as their website, wouldn’t it just be more gracious of this company to use the tag line, “FREE SEX” ?  Merry Christmas indeed.

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Santa’s Response


Well, I got a response from Santa about my Wishlist, sadly, it was not what I was expecting. I think that maybe Santa is not as nice as everbody thinks he is…

Dear Sparklebumps,

I was surprised to get your wishlist so early this year, since you tend to procrastinate on everthing else. I guess this proves how truly selfish you are, doesn’t it? Perhaps you should concentrate on the REAL meaning of Christmas, and instead of continuing to buy shoes for yourself, you should be saving your money so you can buy your Rockstar the gold-top guitar he’s been wanting for the last 25 years.

Now, getting to your list…

You asked for a year’s supply of alcohol to cope with being you. This is not something I am prepared to be responsible with providing you, because your liver will be shot, and I do not want to be the cause of any stupid things that you may do in your drunken haze. You know how incorridgible you are when you drink. Although, you DO provide great entertainment for me and the Mrs. on boring Monday nights.

You also mentioned items from Victoria’s Secret. I have to let you know, I really detest going into that store; it’s not really set up for men of my… physique. My coat always gets caught on those little panty tables and knocks them over, which makes all the hot girls that work there scramble around  to pick everything up. (Heh-heh) I suppose you DO deserve at least one bra, since watching the hot girls bend over makes it worth going into that store. That one girl with the crazy blonde hair? DAAAAA-MN!

The Mustang. I don’t even know why I’m bothering to mention it. You know I can fit that shit in my sleigh. So you might as well quit asking.

You asked for shoes. Really?! You know you don’t have any space for them. And besides, you don’t go anywhere fancy anyway. You know you look ridiculous wearing 5 inch stillettos in the snow, right? (Although they DO make your ass look yummy.) What you really need to do is tell your Rockstar to make you a shoe shelf at his work. They’re working on a really nice cherry wood one right now; maybe the clients who ordered it won’t want it.

The beating for your Rockstar, I may be able to work out. He really is being a douche about the whole marriage thing. I have a few elves who tune people up when they need it. I’ll call them up.

No babies for you. Where do you expect me to get babies? They don’t grow on trees, you know, and the black market is just too risky for a guy who is so high profile like I am.

I’m not really sure why you are asking for books either. You really need to feng-shui your place and get rid of a bunch of stuff first. However, God decided to help me out with this one. He decided to take your Rockstar’s sister-in-law’s mother, and  she had a buttload of books. I think the sister-in-law already called your Rockstar asking if you wanted them all.  You’re probably going to have to rent a storage shed though.

You need to go on a diet, so no, Sparkle, I’m not giving you a fryer for french fries. Eat some fruit, Bitch!

Maybe if you’re a good girl and go on that diet, you’ll get a stripper pole next year. If I get you one this year, you’re just gonna look like those skanks at Sugar Daddies, and that’s just gross.

I’ll see what I can do about Chris Meloni. You know he’s going to want to spend Christmas with his very tall wife, right? I may have to take him against his will, but I’ll do what it takes since you promised me a boob squish. That was semi-awesome of you by the way. And for the record, I expect the full 45 seconds.

P.S. Yes, please DON’T leave me any cookies. Your cooking needs some work.

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A Wishlist for Santa


Dear Santa,

I know it’s only the beginning of November, but I figured I had better get my letter to you early so you can get a head start.

I realize there is not much that you can do as far as prescription pills since you aren’t a doctor, so please I would like it if you could just supply me with a year’s worth of brandy, vodka, whiskey, etc. to help me cope with being me. Peach-flavored it preferred.

I would ask for the 2.6 million dollar Victoria’s Secret Fantasy bra, but I’m assuming it’s about 4 cup sizes too small, so anything that you can find in the store that’s a DDD would be great. Also, their smelly lotions are fabulous, but please none that smell of vanilla.

A 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500 is at the top of my list, but I’ve been asking for that for several years and you seem to keep overlooking it. I realize this is probably just an oversight, so I will ask for it once again. I would like a black one with white racing stripes, since a purple one would NOT be the original color, and I prefer to keep it in it’s original condition.

You know that I am not picky on shoes, so any fabulous, brightly-colored or animal-print, 5inch+ heels would be greatly appreciated. While we are on the subject, a closet big enough to hold them all would be quite beneficial.

I would appreciate a beating for my Rockstar, since he has not yet found it necessary to answer my non-proposal. Please be sure not to leave any marks on him, because I would not want to be accused of abuse, and bruising would marr his perfectly-freckled face.

I would like one or two or five babies, preferably of assorted ethnicity. (because I hate to knock my own race, but white people be having some UGLY babies!) I would like it if they are mostly boys, because girls are just a pain in the ass. Also, a million or so dollars would be great with which to care for them.

Books. This is, I suppose, not really a necessity, since it has become tradition for my brother to gift me with an $85 gift card for Half-Priced Books, but if you have any spare room in your sleigh, you know what to do.

I was going to ask for french fries, but chances are they would be soggy before you get them to me, so I will just ask for an industial-sized fryer, and also one of those big freezers, so I can keep all the bags of Mcdonald’s french fries you will bring me frozen.

I suppose that is all for this year, because I know it will cost you a bundle to keep me satisfied. Remember to thank Mrs. Clause for keeping you fat, because I don’t plan on baking you any cookies this year.

Love, Sparklebumps

P.S. I forgot one thing. I’ve been asking my Rockstar for a stripper pole for the last few years, but he pretends he doesn’t hear me. If you can find the time, they are only $99 at Spencer Gifts.

P.P.S. If you can get Chris Meloni for me, I would squish my boobies against you for 30 seconds. Maybe 45.

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