Santa Doesn’t Want Your Stale Ass Cookies

Christmas-cookies
By Achituv (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons.
It’s the holiday time and if you subscribe to the Christian holiday of pagan ritual and greed then you’re likely riddled with anxiety (sure, we can call it excitement). Maybe your eye is twitching. Or both eyes are twitching. You’ve got hives because … in-laws. Your eyes glaze over when you see the storefront signs that guilt  you into present purchases, the signs that tell you how many days are left before Greedmas Day, the signs that send you into a revelrie of Christmas violence. You’ve been to your work holiday party, the real work holiday party, your friends’ holiday parties, your holiday party, and your kid’s class party. You’ve been to your kid’s Christmas program and your nephew’s Christmas program and your religious relative’s Christmas pageant where you sang Happy Birthday Jesus because nothing compliments stress eating like a fucking birthday cake and some confetti icing. Thank you, Jesus. You’ve managed to buy gifts for everyone on your list and budgeted the credit card payoff for the next year. You’ve wrapped all the gifts. Somewhat. You bought a tree. You even decorated that son of a bitch.

You read a chapter of The Road to your kids because they’re weird as fuck then tucked them into bed where visions of apocalyptic zombie hunting now dance in their heads. Everything’s fucking done, damn it. You sigh. Now you just have to wait for the little shits to fall asleep and then you can put the hoard of merchandise created by children in a country with lax labor laws under the half-dead tree.

You approach the tree and pass the plate of cookies you crush with bridled Christmas rage into the disposal pretending to have eaten them while leaving a convincing amount of crumbs on the plate. Christmas cookies. Stale nasty, fucking chemical-laced lumps of dough topped with too sweet clumsily applied icing and every kind of fucking sprinkle ever made.

Is that rat shit or sprinkles?
Is that rat shit or sprinkles?

And you snap.

But don’t worry! I’m here to help your overworked, underpaid, bloated, anxiety riddled, hive mottled, ass. Let’s make a fucking treat Santa actually wants to eat.

First, you’ll need some supplies:

  1. Weed or if you’re sort of prudish, a stiff drink. Fucking hot chocolate is for babies. Get that shit out of here (unless that shit is laced with Jose Cuervo Tequila of the Cinnamon variety). Drink that shit. Light that shit up. I bet you’re feeling festive as fuck now!
  2. Some kind of roasting meat. Like roast. Roast is good.
  3. Alcohol. But, you’ve spent all your hard earned credit on Christmas presents because Jesus and now you’re broke as fuck. That’s cool. We can still do this right. Get a nice Irish Red. A fucking Killian’s will do. Unless you’re a 1%er and then you can use a nice Chateau Lafite-Rothschild red. I prefer Killian’s because I’m middle class like that.
  4. Some onions. Like two or three. I fucking love onions so I get like six small ones. Yellow. But do you.
  5. Carrots. The ones that look like they grew from the ground. They’ll have dirt on them and need to be peeled. Don’t peel them.
  6. Olive oil. Bout a quarter cup.
  7. A fucking frying pan.
  8. A stove. With an oven attached.
  9. Some flour. Salt. Pepper. More fucking alcohol or another bowl. And fuck! Christmas music would fucking rock right about now!

10. A roasting pan. Oven mitts. I know it seems like the latter is common sense, but you’re drunk as shit, possibly stoned or Xanaxed and listening to Vince Vance and The Valiants (say that real fast 10 times). 😀

11. An apron, especially if you’re one of those fools that gets nakey when drunk. We’ve discussed aprons before. It doesn’t matter if yours is covered in FSU football helmets, monkeys, or lips because you’re covered in hives and if you’re not in footsy pajamas, you’re nakey all but for that ridiculous Santa hat.  Lulz. Silly head.

Now we’re ready to cook. First, let’s make sure there’s a fire hydrant nearby. Oh shit, lol. I meant extinguisher. Hahaha. That cinnamon tequila ain’t bad.

  1. Cover your meat with flour.
  2. Stop laughing. Not that meat. Sheesh. No more alcohol.
  3. Salt and pepper your meat. Are you seriously going to laugh every time I say meat?
  4. Fuck. I forgot to tell you to put that 1/4 cup of oil in your frying pan so wash your hands, unless you don’t care about E. coli, and do that shit right now. Crank up the heat to like, high. Don’t add the meat till the oil is jumping.
  5. At this point, you’ve salt, peppered, and floured your meat and the oil is beating time to Wham!’s “Last Christmas.” It’s cool. I’m not judging. Go ahead, put the meat into the pan. Get a devil fork thingy or tongs. Sear the fuck out of the meat, on all sides. Or something close to that then put it in your roasting pan. Don’t get burned.
  6. Stop fucking crying! Your kitchen is supposed to be smokey. That’s how you know you didn’t fuck this shit up. Wave something at the smoke detector. Turn on the stove fan.
  7. Now it’s time to cut onions and carrots. You’re too fucked up to operate a peeler. Just quarter the onions and carrots. Let’s go for the rustic look. Now sear those sons of bitches too and add them to the roasting pan around your roast or you know, wherever.
  8. Now cut down the heat to medium and pop open one of those Killian Reds.
  9. Nooooo! Don’t drink it. Pour about a cup or two in the frying pan, whoa, whoa. Okay. Okay. The whole bottle works too. Use a spoon or spatula to get the meaty bits all swirly twirlied in the beer. Dump this shit in your roasting pan.
  10. Roast the roast according to your meat’s cooking instructions or according to the level of doneness you prefer. Boom! A Christmas fucking miracle.
  11. Let cool. Eat out of the pan or on a plate. Wash down with the remaining Killian’s or Chateau Lafite-Rothschild (totally judging you).
  12. Admit it. That shit is way better than fucking cookies. You’re welcome!

Herry Molidays!

p.s. You turned the oven and stove off, right?

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