Stinking Christmas. by Robert Ragan

Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas motherfuckers.

Every year my family buys me tons of gifts — heavy ones in shiny wrapping paper. Picking them up, I'm shaking 'em thinking, Wow! I wonder what this is.

Fooled year after year. Because when I open these presents, they're always the same. Boxes filled with bars of soap, body spray, cologne, razors, aftershave, and deodorant.

Last year I started to say, "You guys must think I stink." Instead, I kept my mouth shut and plotted my revenge for this Christmas.

First of all, I haven't shaved all year. The plan was to show up stinking and looking raggedy as hell.

While everyone showered and dressed up nice, I went and pulled a pair of jeans and a shirt out of the dirty clothes hamper. It wasn't enough that I hadn't showered or brushed my teeth since late September. Oh no, I put on the worst smelling shoes I had with no socks.

It was hell wearing the same boxers with skid marks and cum stains for months.

My teeth were yellow as a school bus. My breath would back down a fire-breathing dragon. Stinking armpits and feet that smelled like stale corn chips just weren't enough. I wanted to smell like I'd spent the year locked up in a chicken house.

Instead, I got this bright idea as the light bulb in my brain came on. Walking outside, I'm in the dog pen rolling around in shit. The labs licked me in the face. One of them cocked up their leg and pissed on me.

Rubbing behind his ears, I said, "Good boy."

Standing in the cold, I'm gagging. I stunk so bad it made me throw up. Of course, I made sure to puke all over my shirt. The smell of my vomit would go well with the shit and piss.

My family's house was brightly lit with blue Christmas lights. Getting out of my car, I walked up to the front porch. Looking through the window, you've never seen such a cheerful, happy family. Ringing the doorbell, I'm standing there freezing and holding my breath.

My cousin, Sid, opens the door and his smile changes to a look of terror.

"Merry Christmas," I say, and give him a huge hug.

Yacking, he immediately pinches his nostrils, "Jesus Christ Rob," he says. "What happened to you?"

The whole family seemed uncomfortable. Over half of them retreated outside to smoke. All the kids started crying. My cousin, Jen's daughter, buried her face in her mother's bosom and said, "Mommy something stinks really bad."

At the dinner table Sid's girlfriend, Beverly, throws up on her plate of turkey, dressing, and candied yams.

Finally, the eldest family members called me into the other room, holding their noses, they all talked in funny voices.

"Son, why don't you open your presents, then go take a shower?"

My sisters walk in, one of them says, "You knew better than to show up stinking and dressed like a bum." The other says, "Dad's so ashamed of you, he got up and left."

"You know what? Fuck this; I'm leaving!"

As I walked out, my Aunt Jane lost her Christmas cookies, puking all over the presents. My cousin Tommy says, "I love you boy, even if you do smell like a polecat's butthole.

Children cried, and I made everyone uncomfortable. Christmas was a huge success this year.

Don't mind me, I hate the Holidays like every other day, and I don't need a damn thing from anyone. It just irked me, like it's the families inside joke to buy me a ton of soap and other healthcare products.

It's almost January, and I still haven't washed my ass or brushed my teeth. Skunks run away from me, squealing in horror. They know their spray would have no effect on me.

Maybe it's time I finally cleaned up a little bit.

Robert Ragan, from Lillington, NC writer of short stories and poetry has been published online at Vext Magazine, Outlaw Poetry, and The Dope Fiend Daily. Alien Buddha Press has published his first short story collection "Mannequin Legs and Other Tales".