Blasphemer Rhymes With Reemer

Random Memorandum™ to a Beard Baubled™ Arsewipe: By last tally, 'twould appear to Yours Truly Dooley® that hipster dipshits such as yourself have ruined music, fashion, coffee, hygiene and transportation. (No brake bicycling?) You mangle language, gently fry neighborhoods and now you’re taking a run at Santy's birthday? Let me state for the vinyl record, Mister Christmas Blasphemer™, that I will not have it on my watch! In my day, men of character were respectful of the Holy Day and took a proper straight razor to their faces, doused themselves with iced-blue Aqua Vulva® or Hai Karate™ aftershave and slunk into Christmas Heave™ Mass with a pint or three in them and kept their mouths shut and no one was the Budweiser®. You bloody Steely Dan® branded dildos in your dingy t-shirts and hemp shoe sandals sully the proper tradition of religulous holiday display with your godforsaken bulbous adornments. Indeed, upon inspection of the mimeographed station house lyrics for “Deck the Halls with Bows of Holly by Golly,” I see no mention of vapor-toking shite-for-brains hanging ornamentals balls from their chin hair. Surely you serial, self-pleasuring onanists haven’t become so self-repossessed with your own climaxtology that you've forgotten that Christmas is for the kiddies and the online retailers. Either redirect the spotlight off of yourselves and your hairy-legged galfriends and shine it back onto Santy Christ®, Frosty the Snowman and Rupert the Reluctant Red-Nosed Reindeer™ or I'll put a patrolman's boot up your buttocks.