Lady Killer: Keepin’ The Ho in Holiday


Nicole only wants four things for Christmas this year: a Segue, a gift card to Caldor, the advancement of US foreign policy to increase diplomacy while weening off our dependency to oil, and some warm peppermint MD 20/20.


Tis the season for tricking your number one into thinking the relationship is going to last half-past New Year’s Eve. Since such is the case, why not finagle some ill gifts from his paws while the pipe game is still right? ‘Cause you and I both know that once the winter doldrums set in so does the need for fireplace cuddles and Eskimo kisses.  And that shit’s just not conducive to your gangster. 


Boys are terrible gift givers, women even more so.  So before you go to the Walgreen’s photo bar to have your favorite kissing couples digi-pics blown to poster-size, get real familiar with the following holiday do’s and do not’s to spare yourself the sort of embarrassment you can prevent. Your face, on the other hand? You got that shit.


Do: invest an interest in the ones you love by actually, you know, talking to them rather than looking for clues in unreliable places. Like their MySpace page. We all adore a blinking glitter kitty as much as the next litter loving cat-lady, but does your bestie really need a set of pulsing LCD feline dildos to get her through the lonely blustery months? Possibly. But save that shit for your first girl-on-girl get-it-on, not for the office Pollyanna luncheon.  


Do not: think that your boyfriend shares your passion for memory making by decoupaging him a trinket box filled with ticket stubs from Mamma Mia! and old valentines. The day that he can stick his dick in either is the day that both of these gifts will mean something other than the nothing they will come Christmas morning.


Do: attend every holiday party to which you are invited. Why is this even up for discussion? I understand that you hate your parents–you’ll outgrow the angry fat teenage phase soon enough–but, by not attending, it seems that you also hate delicious home cooking, free booze, and not-so-charming anecdotes from the drunk one in the family. Oh wait, that’s you. But on some real shit, if you’re so up your own ass that you forgo an invite to merrymake over whatever un-fun bullshit you intend, you don’t deserve a holiday. Do us all a favor, sleep through it. We’ll wake you up in January when you can continue being insufferable and boring.


Do not:  cop out on the hostess gift by plunking down dollars on things that smell like shit.  Like Bath & Body Works.  Or potpourri. Or candles. Or potpourri scented candles from Bath & Body Works. Nobody likes the smell of shit. Except for people who like the smell of shit. Believe me, we are few.


 Do: your gracious host a favor and bring something edible to the party. Chocolate covered anything is a safe bet. Candy panties, less so.  Telling your girl’s aunt to eat your dick? You’re an idiot. A funny one, but really, you’re an idiot.


Do not under any circumstance, wear the fucking Santa hat. This is as inexcusable as wearing sunglasses in the club. I don’t care if St. Nick himself materializes before you and demands your putting one on. Do it and we’re through.


The offical cap of the 1972 Anchorage St. Nix of the Single A FreezeYourBallsOff Leage (minor league affiliates of the Seattle Pilots)


Do: take plenty of pictures of your friends and family before they realize that you’re the idiot in the Santa hat and drop you like a bad habit. At least you will have something for next year’s memory box.


Do not: profess your love for your best friend on New Year’s Eve thinking that, by the grace of some holiday miracle, he or she will find your less disgusting than he or she has all year prior. You still look exactly the same except now you have on stupid 2009 glasses and blinking Mardi Gras beads. And yep, you just pissed your pants.


Do: embrace your inner recessionista and hand make meaningful gifts for those closest to you. Knit nana a scarf or brew bathtub beer for your office crush . Or, if you’re really strapped for cash, give the gift of vagina. From what I’ve heard, yours is one size fits plenty, any, and many.


Do not: believe the hype. Not all women are soulless enough to hyperventilate over shiny things like diamonds and pricey gas guzzlers. Well maybe just the gas guzz. I can’t lie, it’d be nice to grip some grain now and again rather than gripping spit and shit covered subway railings.


 Do: give the gift of music. Whether this means making a mixtape for the dude who knows not of your existence or making out with a drum tech for a low-level local band, do the right thing this season and throw your support behind an art on its deathbed.  And yes, the rumors are true: Zilla Rocca accepts both donations of dollas and swallas.  Tis the season, honey.



Swallas = the plural term for “swallow” when speaking in South Philly 



Do not: hang mistletoe from your dick. That’s not funny and your dick is still the same dick we refused to put inside of us before Christmas. And Valentine’s Day. And that one time in the bathroom at Ruby Tuesday.  Go hang with Santa Hat. I’m sure he’s looking for a chimney to stuff.


Do: love your children. It’s important and a law, I think.  However…


Do not: send out holiday greetings with their faces on a custom made card. Cute as it may be to someone who is into children (that’d be you), it’s really just an invite for someone with loose morals (that’d be me) to mustachio the otherwise innocent face of an antler-eared baby.


Do: gift the gift of necessity. During this time of financial disrepair, nothing says “Sorry about the pink slip, brah” like a paid-in-full T-Mobile bill or a gratis ride to the local Piggly Wiggly to your lesser-vehicled buds. What once was a holiday of decadence and disposable income, has now become a red and green reminder of one’s No Money, Mo Problems. Which reminds me…


Do not: forget to gift or re-gift your favorite blogger. Despite what you’ve heard about the six-figure deals some of the Internerd’s finest have had inked, we are not recession-proof. And that shit isn’t true. I mean, not for me it isn’t. And this is, after all, mostly about me.  I like my gifts like I like my men. You know, like men.  Send some my way and we’ll call it even. 



  1. “Do not: profess your love for your best friend on New Year’s Eve thinking that, by the grace of some holiday miracle, he or she will find your less disgusting than he or she has all year prior. You still look exactly the same except now you have on stupid 2009 glasses and blinking Mardi Gras beads. And yep, you just pissed your pants.”

    Ah, shit. I totally was going to do that. Thanks for ruining the holidays for me…

  2. Doc:

    Like I said in my last Beat Generation–f*ck the idea of winning over the female friend. The only way you can really pull it off is to let her know about this model you met and have been banging feverishly, even if it’s 100% bullshit. You need to appear unavailable, and men become more attractive to women when they are seen or are known to be taken/smitten by another woman.

  3. Everyone gives you all the credit for my brilliance!!!! Never fails, never fails…

    I mean, not that you’re not brilliant. You are. Most of the time.

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