Sex Detective Christmas Special, part one

Joy to the fucking world, god-lovers.  I'm the first to admit that I'm not overly familiar with Christian mythology, but you would have to go along way to find someone who doesn't know the story of Christmas, and the figures responsible for the whole gift giving craze that has been exploited by the retail industry as a result.  That's right, those three magi who camel-trekked all the way from fuck-knows-where to deliver pressies to the infant king of the Jews in Bethlehem one starry night.  Loaded down with gold and ancient toiletries, they supposedly decided to hook up, hit the road and follow a star until they found some kid in a manger to offload their goodies.

Now before I get into belittling a bunch of horrible things here, I just want to take time out to question the logistics of this part of the legend.  These dudes were goddamn kings from foreign lands, rights?  Not one, but three (trinitarianism is big in this religion as you probably know) ancient sovereign leaders who apparently set aside any differences, buried any potential rivalries and joined to hand deliver valuable commodities outside their own respective nations.  And trust me, the Middle-East back then wasn't any friendlier than it is today.  So, my question to you is: do you have any conceivable idea of just how frighteningly massive the triple entourage for these muther-fuckers would be in order to spend weeks crossing deserts and borders on this unified quest?  Bethlehem would have assumed it was being besieged by allied forces.  Personal bodyguard armies, servants, slaves, supply trains, chicks to peel grapes.  Magi did not screw around when it came to road trips, they couldn't afford to.  Nowadays if a foreign dignitary knocks on your barn door you might see a few guys in dark suits with shoulder bulges, but back then only deterrent to bandits, local militias and greedy nobility was a show of power.  So go ahead and re-read the nativity story, only now picture an extra thousand heavily armed men hanging around the town.  And you wonder why there was no room at the inn?

Anyway, the great thing about vaguely described, historically ambiguous events like the nativity is that you can apply a little poetic license to what is the second most important date in the Christian calendar.  Here are some of the results.

Eeek!  When you buy this for your front yard all your neighbours buy lawn darts.  Any kid who isn't using this retarded balloon show as a bouncy castle by the end of the day is in a cancer ward praying for a Christmas miracle, or, as depicted here, throwing up gang signs (or possible pretending to be airplanes, I'm not sure).

Huh?  It was a good 1800 years after Christ that St Nick was conceived, so how is he visiting the baby messiah back in Bethlehem to give him presents on the holiday that wasn't possible until after Christ died?  It's this sort of magical time-travelling escapade that fucks up universes, Santa.  Also, when I first read the signage above the stable I thought it was a flagrant act of narcissism that said "O Come Let Us Adore Kim".

Just enjoy the look of horrified surprise on these little faces, will you?  And no fucking wonder after they discover that baby Jesus has just been shoved into a jar.

Now here we have a more solemn and peaceful depiction of - OH DEAR GOD WHAT ARE THOSE THINGS STARING THROUGH THE WINDOW?!  Mutant sheep?  Aliens?  A three-headed alien sheep?  No wonder the crib is soaked with urine.















Nothing says Christmas like Dicky Costumes
From what I can tell, in the costume industry 'egg-nog' is code for 'opium' because that is the only way to explain these ideas.  As for the consumer who wears them, I can only blame their paint sniffing mothers.

I.... nah, I got nothing.

 As a costume catalogue model you will one day fall so low in your career that even your agent refers to you as "the penis turkey neck guy.

 Savour the irony of the term 'gay bashing' when you rock up to a party, strike this pose, then watch every homosexual in the joint come at you with fists swinging.

Now here's the conumdrum: you can't possible wear this piece of insanity sober, yet there's no way you can survive the night in it drunk.  The solution?  Gift-wrapped cubes of cement on your feet and stand in a dark corner in the hope that no one tries wiring you to a power outlet.















Christmas and Sexiness?
Christmas is a time for family, for thoughtful celebration, sharing, forgiveness, joy and boobies.

Ho-ho-hoe!

However, there's apoint where sexing up what is otherwise intended to be a G-rated holiday starts to creep into fetish territory.  Flower-pressing a couple of albino gerbils then gluing them to tits probably qualifies.  Oh, wait, according to the inset there it's just the cheaply crafted visage of an old, bearded man whose nose may or may not be a nipple.  That's okay then.  Still, the toxic slug adhesive seems to be causing her an aneurism.












And now the horror...

Somehwere in suburbia there's a mantlepiece with this family portrait sitting on it.  I want you to think very carefully about that fact.  One fateful night dozens of friends and relatives received this as an email attachment with the banner "Seasons Greetings, wish you were here!" (on Incest Murder-Cult Island Resort).
Look, for all I know, this family has hundreds of fig-leaf themed photo albums and that this one is only differentiated by the addition of Santa hats.  They could just be Creationist Purists trying to live out some Edenistic ideal.  I'm sure the child welfare authorities will take that into account when they order in the SWAT team.

Department store Santa portrait?  Don't be niave, this is the last 'proof-of-life' photo sent by a pyschotic kidnapper before the cops raided the throne room of his basement meth lab.  Luckily little Tammy survived, but to this day she refuses to live in any house with a chimney.