THE CHRISTMAS CLICHE COLLECTION STORY
Once upon a time there was a down-and-out single mother who had matted blond curls. She also had 6 kids, who were all very grubby. Because she had to work for 18 hours a day making Nikes for Kathie Lee, she had her lesbian sisters, Billie and Bobbie, come over to their paper sack by the side of the road, which is where they lived, to watch the kids.
One morning, as it was nearing Christmas, Billie and Bobbie came over bearing a sack of oranges.
“Hahaha. Look what we got for an early Christmas present!” cackled Billie.
“P-please,” sniffed grubby Patches, whose knobby ankles stuck out from too-short pants cuffs.
“Oh, aunties, mayn’t we have an orange?” sniffed grubby Little Dickie, whose knobby wrists stuck out from too-short shirt cuffs. “We’re starving!”
“NO!” howled Bobbie. “You can’t, because we’re playing the role of really nasty mother figure / stepmother stereotype in this story! So there!”
“Nyeh,” added Billie. “By the way, did you know that the word ‘orange’ doesn’t rhyme with any other word? This symbolizes the uniqueness of Christmastime. Also, the orange is sweet, which symbolizes the sweetness of Christmastime. Also, oranges have seeds, which symbolizes that some things
grow at Christmastime. And that some things don’t. It’s all symbols, you see.”
“And pretty gratuitous ones, at that,” muttered Poor Violet.
“Now, all of you kids! Out of the sack!” screamed Billie. “I don’t care if it IS twenty below and the wind is howling. You have to leave so that the readers can feel sorry for you! Go help an orphan or try to buy a ridiculously expensive present with not enough money, or something!”
“B-but,” said grubby Little Dickie, “Can’t Tiny Mollie stay? She’s dying of consumption!”
"NO! screamed Bobbie, and she kicked the kids out of the house. As the kids trudged off, the aunts missed seeing Poor Violet flipping them the bird, which is just as well.
As the children walked uphill through the blizzard to the village, they passed an orphanage. A fat orphan stood outside dressed in a warm down coat, holding an almost-eaten Snickers. He was sobbing and said, between gasps, “Almost gone! My Snickers is almost gone! The horror!”
Patches, still grubby, said, “Poor orphan child, I hear your pain. Let me cut off my arm and give it to you. Then maybe you won’t be so sad.” So he found a rusty sewer grate in the road and cut off his own left arm. He handed it to the orphan.
The orphan stood, staring at the arm and then at Patches, with his mouth hanging open. He had totally forgotten about his Snickers bar.
“Oh, what a warm, giddy feeling I have!” chirped Patches.
“That’s the loss of blood, asshole,” muttered Poor Violet.
“No, no! That’ll stop, with time and a good tourniquet. No, I feel warm because I did something nice for someone in trouble and he stopped crying and I feel terrific!” and he threw his other arm around Poor Violet’s shoulders. Tiny Mollie coughed in agreement.
As they continued on, they came to a Harley Davidson dealership. “Oh, oh!” cried grubby Little Dickie. “How I would love to buy Mama a Harley! Let us go inside and see how much a ‘hog’ costs. I’ve been saving my pennies!”
So in they trudged to the bustling, busy Harley dealership. The rich, uncaring people inside were touched to see 6 grubby children digging through their pockets for a few meager pennies. They felt their ice-cold hearts melt
as they watched Tiny Mollie help by going through Patches’s left pocket for him.
Little Dickie, getting grubbier as the story progressed, gathered his courage and approached the desk. He clutched 17 pennies in his hand. “Oh, Mr. Greed-Filled, Slimy, Heartless Harley Dealer, sir? I want to buy a Harley for my Mama. May I? Look–I have lots of money!” and he opened his palm to show his pennies.
The Greed-Filled, Slimy, Heartless Harley Dealer threw back his head and laughed and laughed, sneeringly. “Seventeen cents! You stupid, grubby children! Why don’t you go try the bubble gum machine? But first, get this bleeding kid out of my dealership! And, when I say ‘bleeding,’” he added, sneeringly, “I’m not being a British stereotype!”
Little Dickie hung his head and a tear slid down his grubby cheek. “Don’t worry, little one!” cried Patches. “Someone will now see our plight and offer to buy the Harley themselves. It ALWAYS happens in stories like this.”
The 6 children looked around expectantly. However, at Patches’s declaration, everyone had suddenly decided that they had more important places to be, and the dealership emptied out in a hurry. The last person to go took the 17
cents off of Little Dickie’s grubby palm with a cheery “Yoink!”
Dejectedly, the 6 children began the long, uphill walk back to their paper sack. “Didn’t we come uphill to get here in the first place?” murmured Poor Violet, but no one heard her.
Little Dickie started to cry grubbily. “Oh, oh, oh,” he said. “I wish I could get Mama a Harley. I know she would so love to be a Harley Ho.”
Tiny Mollie’s face began to shine with a glow that may or may not have been the consumption. “Fear not, children,” she rasped. “For I have had a pure, sweet dream of innocent childhood. Last night when I laid my wee head upon the lump of coal I use as a pillow, I dreamt that we were all in Bethlehem! And we all had Harleys, and we rode them slowly and majestically into the town, singing Hosanna! And we frolicked and cavorted with all manner of Hell’s Angels and there was much rejoicing! And you have to believe me, for
I am a little sickly child, and therefore the veil is very thin for me and every word that I utter is like unto prophecy.”
The children stared at her in wonder. “Did you notice that she didn’t cough once during that…prophecy?” exclaimed Patches. “This truly is a miracle! Hurrah! A Christmas miracle!”
“Either that or she was just faking all that consumption shit,” muttered Poor Violet, but no one heard her, which was just as well.
When the children reached their paper sack home, they saw that their aunts had left. As they huddled together, trying to stay warm, someone knocked at the door. It was the Greed-Filled, Slimy, Heartless Harley Dealer!
“Ha ha!” he sneered. “I just came to sneer at you some more! You’re poor and grubby! Ha ha!”
“Why,” said Patches, “You seem like a gruff, surly, bitter old man. I bet that deep down, you’re really just lonely.”
“Rats,” said the Greed-Filled, Slimy, Heartless Harley Dealer. “You’ve guessed my secret. Yes, really I’m just lonely and I act gruff, surly, and bitter to disguise the fact that I just want love.”
“If you’re looking for love, don’t even try my aunts, or you may just find yourself less a man than you are now,” muttered Poor Violet. No one heard her, which was just as well.
“Since you pure, innocent children guessed my secret, here is a totally pathetic, lame present,” the Greed-Filled, Slimy, Heartless Harley Dealer continued. He pulled two bent, greasy Harley tire spokes out of his pocket
and handed them to Patches.
“Wow!” cried Patches. “This is a pathetic, lame present, but I think it’s really great!”
“Me too!” cried Little Dickie. “Oh, whoops–you only need one person to think that in this story. Sorry.”
The Greed-Filled, Slimy, Heartless Harley Dealer departed, and as the children gathered 'round to admire their spokes, someone knocked on the door again.
“Who could that be?” asked Little Dickie in a grubby voice. “We’ve already had the visit from the gruff, surly bitter old man who, deep down, is really just lonely. I can’t think of who this visitor could be!”
“Haven’t you been keeping track of the cliches, Einstein?” muttered Poor Violet. No one heard her, which was just as well.
Tiny Mollie opened the door, and, to everyone’s surprise, it was the orphan in the down coat! “Guess what?” he said. “I’m really a kindly angel in disguise. Because I was so moved and touched–and sickened–by Patches’s gift, I’m here to grant you guys ONE wish. You may talk amongst yourselves.”
“I’d like a name,” said one of the two nameless children.
“Me too, and I’d also like more than one crappy line in this stupid story, since we haven’t been heard from yet,” said the other nameless child.
The other children bent their heads together and discussed what they wanted: what should they get? A Harley for Mama? A tourniquet? Some Halls Mentholyptum drops? A lifetime subscription to Playgirl (yes, you guessed it–this was Poor Violet’s wish)?
Finally, the kindly angel got tired of waiting. “I may be an angel, but I’m not perfect,” he said, “And I gotta get back in time for Jerry Springer. So hurry it up!” He waited. “Oh, okay,” he said. “I give. Here you go–a Harley for Mama, a new arm for Patches (leave this one on, kid), a bag of Halls, and a lifetime suscription to Playgirl. And I christen you two ‘Gloomy Oliver’ and ‘Nasal-Drip Flopsie.’ But no lines for either of you. I’m not a damn genie-of-the-lamp!”
The angel turned to leave amidst cries of “Goodbye” and “Thank you!” and “God bless” and “Feel that vapor action at work!” and “Mr. September is a hottie!” Suddenly, here came the two lesbian aunts, Billie and Bobbie, up the road back to the paper sack. They had their hands in each others’ back
pockets.
With fire in his eyes, the angel drew himself up to his full height. “Lesbianism is wrong! It is an abomination! Plus, it’s disgusting! You’re gonna be sorry!” He unfolded his hands. The grubby kids watched, stunned, as two bars of pure white fire came out of the angel’s palms and hit Billie.
Billie disappeared.
“It’s like Billie’s thread has been burned out of the Great Weave! As though she has never existed, and Time itself has unraveled around her!” said Little Dickie in awe. Tiny Mollie breathed in mentholated fumes and nodded
in agreement.
“Yep. That’s balefire for ya,” said the angel, dusting his hands in satisfaction.
Suddenly, Bobbie’s sobs cut through the chaos. “You’re right! I’m so sorry!” she howled, on her knees. “Lesbianism is wrong, and I’ll be hetero forever more! Billie’s sudden demise has made me turn over a new leaf. In fact, I
think I’ll go find that Greed-Filled, Slimy, Heartless Harley Dealer who we passed on the road a few minutes ago. He looked like a gruff, surly, bitter old man who, deep down, is really just lonely.” And she sprang to her feet
and ran down the road after the Greed-Filled, Slimy, Heartless Harley Dealer, never to be heard from again.
“My work here is done,” said the angel. “Keep it real.” He left in a cloud of smoke and flames.
Soon, the children’s mother with the matted blond curls came home. “What have you kids,” she said, shaking her matted blond curls, “been up to today?”
Little Dickie said, “Oh, Mother Dear, we did a good deed for an orphan who was a kindly angel in disguise; we tried to buy something for a family member when we had not nearly enough money; we cheered the heart of a gruff, surly, bitter old man who, deep down, was really just lonely; we got a
pathetic, lame present that Patches thinks is really great; and we saw balefire!”
“In other words, it was just another ordinary, normal, average day!” cried Patches. The family laughed together, long and happily, and gathered for a group hug and carol-singing and to wait for the credits to roll.
“God Bless Us, Every One!” piped up Tiny Mollie, ducking quickly to avoid Poor Violet’s fist.
FIN
Feel free to distribute as needed. Let’s see if we can spread this until it gets back to my sister…