“Fuck this shit. Please God pleeeeease smite this wanker family of mine so I can just lie the fuck down and put a fucken Electric Wizard lp on for fucken once.”
“I want to spend time with my loved ones.”
“I want to spend time with my family.”
Familiar tropes from the welter of gobshite seppo TV dramas we’re deluged with on the telly every fucking day of every fucking year.
“I want to spend time with my family.”
FFS.
You see these family wankers every fucken day of the year anyway. You do not want to fuck up your precious holiday time by dealing with them for even fucken longer. Can I please get a holiday from these cunts? Dealing with the agenda of some foreign body is NOT a fucking holiday. You want to lie on the rug. With your blankey. Your very, very BEST blankey. And with your Grado SR-80 headphones on, you can FINALLY not go to work and span the fuck out to your records at skull-melting volume. For HOURS AND HOURS. Fuck off. Leave me alone. Lonely at Xmas? More like HAPPY AS FUCK, YOU PESKY CUNTS. Other people, that being, every fucker that is not you, DOES NOT have your agenda at heart. They have THEIR agenda. That being, their Not You agenda. And that’s fine. That shit makes them happy. They do what makes them happy. They should NOT however expect you to follow along with their vicious, selfish thinking like a pet dog on a fucken leash. Sitting for HOURS at some “dinner party” table with excruciating wanker “dinner guests” who don’t know doom metal from a dildo full of metamucil? That’s worse than being at fucking WORK. You are not supposed to be checking the clock every 5 minutes like this is another one of your motherfucking jobs.
That good ol’ family and loved ones trope gets amplified at Christmas. Exposed in ever-increasingly rawer and higher definition until it frays and someone snaps. “These fuckers are getting on my tits”, we all quietly think as we head into Hour 5 of sitting around doing shit we fucking hate. Great, just fucken great. So you have to spend your precious holiday faking happiness. Yep, you’d rather be back at fucken WORK than doing this shit.
The rigmarole of price-appropriate presents, organising special food, organising special trips, keeping up with the Joneses on telly and social media, with their picture-perfect festivities, and David Copperfield jerseys, and happy, healthy and wealthy families, and Christmas trees the size of the fucking Empire State Building, with so many fucken lights the flashing epileptic bushy fuckers can be seen from fucking Mars. “We have wayyy more lights than the Joneses, that means we are by definition happier at Christmas than them.” Fuck that shit. Holidays are supposed to be about relaxing and unwinding. And that should NOT involve subscribing to some pricks I Am Not You bizarroland hopes and dreams and wishes and utterly, utterly foreign transcripts of happiness.
Therefore, in executive summary, Dr Dawley’s advice on dealing with Christmas stress is to avoid all humans that are not you. NONE of those wankers REALLY have your best interests at heart. It’s all about them. Ohhhh, they think you will ENJOY this “festive” horseshit? A lie disguised as a fib wrapped up in a blanket of bald-faced deceit getting beaten to death in broad daylight with an 8-foot long tinselated dildo. With ALL the 8-foot long tinselated dildos. They’ve watched too much fucken telly. Unless, by some insane fluke of happenstance, their Christmas dream revolves around a blankey, a Denon DL-110 cartridge and Grado SR-80 headphones playing so loud the cunts send all of humanity that is NOT you straight into the Hardon Collider to be immediately dispatched directly back to 666 BC.
READ MORE:
* Dr Dawley: I Kill Kittens And Eat Them.
* Dr Dawley: Not Raw, Mind You.
* Dr Dawley: I Have A Pot.
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