The Night Before Christmas (A Whorehouse Tale)

Here’s a naughty version for you all. Happy Holidays! XOXO

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the whore-house

not a hooker was stirring, or even a mouse.

The thigh-highs were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Santa would fill them with sex-wares.

The hustlers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of vibrators danced in their heads.

The Madam in her fur robe, and pimp in his coat,

Had just settled down with some cuffs and some rope.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,

The pimp rushed over to see what was the matter.

He left the poor madam all tied up in bed,

While he looked out the window while scratching his head.

The neon from bar lights on the fresh-plowed snow,

Gave the glitter of strippers to the objects below.

When what to his lust-occupied eyes should appear,

But a Peterbilt semi, and a drunk plastered trucker.

The driver was fat, and totally tipsy,

The pimp thought he resembled St. Nicky.

He fell from the cab with a curse and finger,

And yelled at the top of his lungs for some strippers:

“Hey Sugar! Yo, Mimi! Venetia and LuLu!

Come, Baby! Come, Ginger! Come, Macy and Penny!

Get down hear this instant, I’ve had quite a trip!

Come suck on my balls while I play with your clits!”

As the girls tumbled out of their beds at the noise,

The pimp opened the window and screamed at the boy.

“Now look hear, you fucker! You gotta have money!

Pussy ain’t free, so show me some gravy!”

The trucker he swore as he dug through his pockets.

He’d spent all his dough on beer and some cigarettes.

He stumbled through the front whorehouse door,

And pleaded at the pimp about getting a whore.

“Dude! I ain’t got no money, no change at all. Yo!

My trailer’s filled with blowup dolls and dildos!

You can have them all if that bitch sucks my cock,

And sell all the rest to the sex shop down the block.”

The pimp, he thought hard, but then he thought, “It’s Christmas, oh joy!

My bitches deserve all his nipple clamps and toys.”

So he nodded affirmative; a hooker went down,

But when she came up, she was met with a frown.

“Your messy! Look at that jizz on your chin!”

The pimp railed at her while she looked on, chagrined.

The trucker sucked in a breath through his teeth,

While he mopped up his junk with a Christmassy wreath.

He chuckled when he saw spooge on his belly,

Because it reminded him a little of jelly.

The girls all stood silent, awaiting their orders,

The pimp slapped the hooker and shook her thin shoulders.

The trucker said, “Wait! Now wait just a second!

The gal helped me out. No need for you to wreck her!”

The pimp stopped his tirade, and glared at the trucker.

The trucker saw a new girl and wanted to fuck her.

He rubbed his soft cock til it started to grow,

Then he bent the girl over and he drilled that poor ‘ho.

The pimp was so surprised at his fervor,

He just stood there in awe and watched in great pleasure.

With a snap of his finger, two girls took their clothes off,

And got out the whips, ’cause he liked it rough.

The rest of the story, I will not really say,

Let’s just say everyone got off good on that day.

Santa On Break

The following is an unpaid rant featuring a pissed off Sparkles.

I bet you all you parents out there with small children get a little bit excited when it comes time to take your little munchkins to your local mall for a photo op with Santa. What a heart-warming sight it is to see that fabled over-stuffed individual with the fruit of your loins perched on his lap blabbering on about the Furby or copy of Halo 4 they want for Christmas. I’m here today to tell you not to get your panties in a bunch and rush off to the mall nearest you. You wanna know why? Because you may just travel over the river and through the woods and haul your kiddos in there boots and hats and mittens through the crowded mall hallway to find a little sign informing you: Santa’s on break. Come back in fifteen minutes.

How do I know that something like this is possible, you may ask? Because it happened to me. I made the far journey across a crowded parking lot after ordering truck at my work with the thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d get a chance to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him face to face exactly what I wanted for Christmas. (Since my letters to him seem to get lost in the mail.) I donned my most festive sparkly tights and my non-slip treaded 6 inch heels so as not to fall and bust my ass in the newly fallen wintry snow, only to arrive at Santa’s giant purpley throned area (which makes me question his sexuality just a little bit) and find a sign informing me that Santa was on break. I looked around furiously to see that big red-velvet-adorned ass and a black elf escaping around the corner by Coldwater Creek. I bowed my head to hide the tears threatening to pour down my cheeks and contemplated running after the big lug, but then was momentarily distracted by the glittery display in the Victoria’s Secret window. After sniffing the various new perfumey scents they offer (which includes one specifically designed for me, aptly named “Sparkle”) I exited the store to find Santa was STILL on break. It was then my rational thinking got the better of me.

I have decided that Santa is very like a wealthy plantation owner before the Civil War. He owns vast acreage (the North Pole) and has many slaves. (Elves) He sits on his butt all year long smoking his expensive tobacco in his pipe and getting laid a lot, (Why else would he be so jolly?)  while his elven slaves work day and night to produce a product that he will then benefit from. (Perhaps not in a monetary way, but cookies are better than money anyway). Like any successfully-run slave driven plantation, there are a few times when it is necessary for the owner to actually put effort in. For Santa, this is the month of December, when he must travel to various malls and radio stations and appease the childish masses by letting them sit on his lap and remind him what they asked for.

Let me ask you this- for a man who sits on his ass all year long and has mythically-produced slaves, is it really necessary that he take a fifteen minute break during the one month he actually has to work? I think NOT! Is not sitting on your butt talking to kids already more of a break than any self-respecting working individual gets? And yet we continue to leave cookies and milk out for the man every single year, and give him a near-Godlike status. (“You better be good, Santa’s watching”)

I have decided we must take Christmas back from this wealthy slave-driving barbarian. No more can we respect his memory by placing his likeness in our homes at Christmas time. I propose that in his place, we replace him with someone just as jolly, but slightly less round. (At least in some areas.) I nominate the one, the only- myself. I pledge to gladly accept the whisperings of your children in my ears and all of their lovely letters too, while wearing a festive fur-lined garment perfectly tailored to all my curves. In appreciation of your electing me as your new Santa-like personality, I promise never EVER to go on break during the month of December, as long as I am supplied with my own army of Oompa Loompas with which to ready myself for the Holidays. In lieu of cookies, please set out one pair of stylishly-designed shoes in size 9, to ensure proper and timely present delivery.

P.S. I’m quite certain that Santa will regret not giving me a chance to sit on his lap….

Listen Up, Santa

Look here, Santa, you tubby piece of Christmas cheer,

I’m done being Miss Nice Sparkle. I couldn’t help but notice that you COMPLETELY disregarded my last year’s letter. What? You think just because you wrote back and told me no that I was going to just shut up and let it slide? Fuck that shit.

You need to remember your sole purpose- that of bringing hope and PRESENTS to all the good little girls and boys in the world. Yeah, so maybe I’m about 20 years out of the age range of your average clientele, but damn it! I have a child-like imagination, you fucker! And, you know, maybe I wouldn’t necessarily be categorized as “good”, or “well-behaved”, but I’m tired of letting people walk all over me; and nobody was supposed to know about that whole selling booby pictures for money thing. How was I supposed to know that dude was going to sell them on Ebay? Anyhoo, you’re old enough that you could probably just forget about that whole incident. Except I thought it was kinda weird that the username of the purchaser of afore-mentioned photos was S.A. Claus. Ha. Did you realize your initials spell “sac”? I bet you got alotta shit for that in school.

So, here’s the deal. I’m gonna give you one last chance to bring me everything I ask for. I kinda wondered if you were pissed off because I didn’t leave any cookies for you last year, but hey. I have people I’ve actually met who deserve lovingly-made assorted baked goods more than you. It’s time now for you to be made aware of my demands:

1. I’ve been waiting more than patiently for that Mustang I mentioned last year. When you didn’t bring it, I thought- Fine. I’ll go buy it myself. I don’t need any handouts from a bearded fruity geriatric. But when I went to the Ford dealer, I remembered how fuck-traded the salesmen there were, so I just rolled my eyes and walked out. I’m pretty sure they were looking at my ass the whole time. So yeah. If it won’t fit in your sleigh, frickin’ buy a barge and ship it down here.

2. I decided that even though one can never have enough books, I should maybe read some of the thousands I already possess. So call up your dealer in Columbia and hook me up with a steady supply of coke, so I have enough energy to read after my normal 12 hour days at work. I also expect one of those awesome antique wingbacked chairs to sit in.

3. Since you have an army of elves, I don’t think it would be too difficult for you to just give one to me. I always wanted my very own little person to do my bidding. Not to be racist, but it seems normal for an elf to be sub-servient to someone of slightly higher stature. Just to be on the safe side, send one of the runty ones, though. And make sure that little shit is one of the good singers. I expect to be serenaded in an acceptable high-pitched manner.

4. To make it look like I’m not completely selfish, can you send another elf to help out at my Gramma and Gramps’? Gramma won’t admit they kinda need some help with cleaning and other menial tasks, but I think she wouldn’t mind if an elf showed up to help. She’d probably just think he’s a kid and shower him with presents anyway. She probably won’t be cognizant long enough to wonder why he hasn’t grown up in 10 or 12 years.

5. This may seem like it’s not for me, but trust me, it is. You need to bring my Rockstar a Custom Les Paul goldtop for Christmas. He’s been pretty depressed lately because of his job, and if he gets one of those, maybe he’ll buck up and finally write some awesome songs we can record. And just maybe, he’ll come out of his haze long enough to remember he’s dating a horny little bitch who needs to get some more than the average person.

6. Since things have been going swimmingly with my Rockstar’s Daughter, I suppose you can bring her something. She’s been wanting a drumset, but if that’s what you decide to bring her, you better fucking bring one of those electric ones she can bang away on through headphones. And don’t think I’m being mean, because that’s the kind my Rockstar was going to get her anyway. but if you bring it, then he’ll have more money to spend on me. And that’s good for everyone. 😉

7. So, I know the whole baby thing threw you off last year. So instead of bringing me a newborn, you can just get the adoption papers all ready for the cutie at church who’s in foster care. She’s the same age as my Rockstar’s Daughter, (But way sweeter) so I figure they’ll get along great. She also has a baby sister who I’ll take too.

I guess that about sums it up for now. But just remember, if my demands aren’t met to my satisfaction, I’ll let everyone know what a booby-obsessed funky little perv you are.

With all my Love,

Sparklebumps

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

 

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?

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.”

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.

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.