It wasn’t always like this, my dear daughters. As the century began, Britannia was rich with the fruits of worldwide trade. From the colonies there came not just silks and spices, but a virulent and abominable plague. Naturally many suspected the French were to blame.
Times have changed, our kids are getting worse
They won’t obey their parents, they just want to fart and curse!
Should we blame the government? Or blame society?
Or should we blame the images on TV?
No! Blame Canada! Blame Canada!
With all their beady little eyes
And flappin’ heads so full of lies
Blame Canada! Blame Canada!
We need to form a full assault
It’s Canadas fault!
A hush fall over the crowd as rookie sensation Wade W. Wilson out of Regina, Saskatchewan, lines up the shot. His form looks good. [kicks Francis in the head] Oh! And that’s why Regina rhymes with fun.
Zoom out, eh. Let’s show them how big the screen is, eh. … Like normally we just have Great White North, eh, but look we got … what’s that over there?
Your nose, Bert! heeheeheehee
This is a highly pressured situation, Michael. Lunatecha is looking for a self-starter with great interpersonal skills. Do you think you’re that person, Michael? Lunatecha is bringing a new painkiller to the market within the next few days, and they’re hoping to hire someone before the drug is released – Michael, you are farting!
I do recall a vague memory of her having once, involuntarily, one would hope, releasing a fart of such frightening power and timbre that I feared she had done herself a horrible mischief.
Mischief managed.
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended—
That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearnèd luck
Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,
We will make amends ere long.
Else the Puck a liar call.
So good night unto you all.
Give me your hands if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
Just a minute. Robin Hood steals money from my pocket, forcing me to hurt the public, and they love him for it? That’s it then. Cancel the kitchen scraps for lepers and orphans, no more merciful beheadings, and call off Christmas.
A sequel. That’s it. We’ll bring it out on March 25, and we’ll call it… Christmas 2!
Just once, I’d like a regular, normal Christmas. Eggnog, a fuckin’ Christmas tree, a little turkey. But, no. I gotta crawl around in this motherfuckin’ tin can.
The worst thing that ever happened to me was on Christmas. Oh, God. It was so horrible. It was Christmas Eve. I was 9 years old. Me and Mom were decorating the tree, waiting for Dad to come home from work. A couple of hours went by. Dad wasn’t home. So Mom called the office. No answer. Christmas Day came and went and still nothing. So the police began a search. Four or five days went by. Neither one of us could eat or sleep. Everything was falling apart. It was snowing outside. The house was freezing, so I went to try to light up the fire. And that’s when I noticed the smell. The firemen came and broke through the chimney top. And me and Mom were expecting them to pull out a dead cat or a bird. And instead they pulled out my father. He was dressed in a Santa Claus suit. He’d been climbing down the chimney on Christmas Eve, his arms loaded with presents. He was gonna surprise us. He slipped and broke his neck. He died instantly. And that’s how I found out there was no Santa Claus.
Your Honor, every one of these letters is addressed to Santa Claus. The Post Office has delivered them. Therefore the Post Office Department, a branch of the Federal Governent, recognizes this man Kris Kringle to be the one and only Santa Claus.
Oh, my Dear Friend, my heart was trembling as I walked into the post office, and there you were, lying in Box 237. I took you out of your envelope and read you, read you right there.
By the time you read this letter I may be dead. I have so much to tell you and perhaps so little time.
I’ve got to do something, and I’m open for suggestions.
Have you tried Hare Krishna?
I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.
You’ve been scared of love and what it did to you
You don’t have to run, I know what you’ve been through
Just a simple touch and it can set you free
We don’t have to rush when you’re alone with me
I feel it coming, I feel it coming, babe
I feel it coming, I feel it coming, babe
I feel it coming, I feel it coming, babe
Read more at THE WEEKND - I FEEL IT COMING LYRICS