What Millicent wants for Christmas: new buttocks, as that bugger in Candida cut mine off; a rowboat; a bottle of single malt, preferably Islay; dry condoms, ‘cause the lubricated ones taste like crap; Pepsi-bottle spectacles, mine broke; new dentures; a cold compress for my persistent headache; a poultice of fennel-root and allspice for my sock drawer; bluebottle flypaper; chewing tobacco, the stuff that comes in the red tin with an Indian’s head on the label; a potato soufflé; a rat’s ass for my uncle Jim, ‘cause he deserves it, the bastard; chocolate cupcakes with vanilla icing and sprinkles; a shit sandwich for Henry, he’ll know why; some Proustian corkboard for my bedroom; a poinsettia (a Mexican shrub of the spurge family that has distinctive bright red bracts resembling petals surrounding a cluster of tiny yellow flowers. It is popular as a houseplant at Christmas. Latin name: Euphorbia pulcherrima) but a dead fucked up one; a new bedspread; Black Cat chewing gum, but unwrapped and ready to chew, please; a jaw-breaker, a blue and red one with green and yellow swirls, again, out of the wrapper; no more bedsores, and while I’m asking, eczema; dandruff powder, or talc if they’re out of the powder; no more starving children; a cure for Aids; bigger hearts, especially for uncle Jim, the bastard; an end to poverty and homelessness; cleaner drinking water; more love and encouragement for those that needs it; and a big wide-armed hug for everyone lost, forgotten, cold, weary, hungry and sad.
