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Was ist Weihnachten?

Yes. what is Christmas, really? We here in the Twisted-Edge.com think-tank were asked to come up with at least one if not hundreds of potential answers to that question. So with our famed speed, precision and efficiency we sprung into action, and we've compiled some data for you, the readers of our funky, moldy little website.* As our impressively scientific findings will show, there's two sides to this whole festive season - the real story of Santa, and the real meaning of Christmas...

The real story of Santa...

Christmas, as well as the last name "Claus" are, we have decided, of German origin. That's why Ezra gave us that first bit in German, which he "enjoys the smooth, cooing, herpetic throat cancer sound of".** You see, way back during the time when wolves ate all the babies they wanted, having had a significant advantage over the least well-armed and near-slowest moving creature on earth, there was a fellow referred to as Herr Claus. A pedophile, he spent his leisure time luring children into his gingerbread house (it was the strongest construction material available at the time) and doing unspeakable things to them.

Well, "unspeakable" is stretching it. We here in the land of TwistedEdge have been talking about all sorts of horrifying scenarios, generally those involving little blond girls who skip though meadows with baskets of chocolate and flowers versus a man who, after having slept with an unclean Jamaican prostitute, developed an extremely rare disorder that causes the hair surrounding the anus to grow wild and out of control. Medical terminology lists it as "Rastalias-Buttonian-Tuftus-Maximus", and it's incurable, as is the secondary condition that comes along with it; an overwhelming desire to display this "ass ponytail" to everyone the victims encounter, and as often as possible.

So, Panta Claus (which is the correct pronunciation) had a long tail 'o white pubic hair entanglement with stylish, yellow highlights that grew up out of his red pants, and only after a six inch ascent, back down all the way to his knees.

This protuberance of white anal hair was thought by most of the local villagers to be difficult, in an aesthetic sense, which is especially important to Germans. The 500-year-old Claus however refused to tuck the ever-thickening hair-tail back down into his pants as he said he found that "uncomfortable" (even though it sounds absolutely luxurious), and he got away with it for a while.

But on too many days, the sun caught Panta's Guinness Book of World Records keratin ass profusion just right, making the yellow highlights and a few black raisins that had found their way into the albino "salad" over time, starkly evident.

As if that weren't enough, the cruel, whipping German wind would take hold of this lengthy, monstrous school 'o pubes at times, making it shift all helter skelter, hither and thither, and even quiver, as the villagers covered their children's eyes and came near suffocating in revulsion.***

Eventually, the village hairstylist (albeit with incredible reluctance) offered to trim old Panta's entangled, white pubic festival without charge, for the greater good of the community. Panta was enraged, and very quickly and rudely refused, saying, "If you don't like to see it, you don't have to look at it, your majesty!"

That was the first and last time anyone had ever referred to the hairstylist as "your majesty", and it didn't make him feel any better about himself, as he'd often imagined it might. Therefore was it doubly heartbreaking.

When Panta refused to allow Hervé to trim that white flock of long tendrils growing from the most putrid area of his body, and also by then dragging it behind him and leaving a scent-trail that made the German Shepherds cry, Panta had enraged all, forcing the villagers to take action. They banished Panta to the far North, tired of his second, farting beard, and of having their children associate it with toys and candy only to come home with bruised, reddened sacs and holes. It had become too common an occurrence.

So they took up torch and pitchfork, and followed that yellow tail, leading them through the snow to his cottage, and gave him a sound thrashing. "Be gone old man!" they screamed with the sort of rage only a pissed-off German can muster. "Stay in the land of eternal snow!" There was one concession though; they told Panta that once a year, he could come at night, when the children were safe and sound in their beds, and be given cookies along with other supplies.

In his loneliness during exile, Panta created a new self, to keep the old one company. He called this hunched mockery of the human form "Black Peter", and where Panta had given the ever-supple children he so adored candy, Black Peter would visit the bad children; those who had refused Panta his proverbial cookie, and bad old Black Peter would leave sacks full of switches for the parents to beat the bad children with. "Ha ha ha!" he'd cry out as he did his black work, while to the other children, satiated Panta chuckled, "Ho ho ho".

The real meaning of Christmas...

So that's the "factual" side of the story of the man our kids now so lovingly refer to as 'Father' Christmas. Still, Christmas has changed since then, and begs us to explore its new religious and commercial aspects, as well as many other facets of meaning presented to us this time of year. Few of us bear the real meaning of Christmas any mind, having simply fallen victim to the commercialization of Christmas (which this year, started in September here in the U.S.) coming earlier and earlier every year.

A few weeks ago for example, I saw a red, glittering sign in the drug store that said "Noel". I decided to fuck with the girl behind the counter and say, "Why don't you have more names? What if your name's not 'Noel'?" I don't know why, but nobody ever seems to get it when I'm trying to fuck around anymore.

So, she frantically looked around the display and said, "Umm. We also have 'Ho Ho Ho'." (Yes, it was an easy pitch.) "That covers you," I said, "but what about like, 'Ezra'?" She had the look of a monkey trying to learn advanced gunfighting tactics. I finally released her and said, "It's okay. I'll just try Wal-Mart."

You know, people like me, who you might call "The Illuminati" are hip to the concept that were there a God (and that if there were, he'd be a sadistic, infanticidal torture-lunatic) and that if in fact The Bible is to be held true, whether it be the story of a Jesus who said, "Lazarus! Arise! Now just Houdini out of your burial shrouds and it's a wrap, no pun intended!" Or the Mormon Jesus, a white lizard who partied with the Indians, s/he wouldn't have wanted it this way.

Christmas is supposed to be… something - I don't even know what anymore. What is it really? It's the day that produces more suicides and garbage than any other day of the year, globally! That's undeniable!

Fuck. Maybe that is what it's supposed to be! I mean, "If Allah wills it, it cannot be stopped. If He does not, it can never be," right? I mean what kind of self-deluded motherfuckers are we? Cavemen made up "God" to explain thunderstorms, and as further questions arose, the concept became more complicated.

Whoever can say they've seen more joy and beauty than violence and agony in this world is either a fucking liar, or a lunatic on a temporary high who can't remember the last time they were tortured. It's just fucking ludicrous.

Okay, so what is Christmas really? There are some possibilities I consider to be realistic, and I'll list… I don't know, given that I'm not being paid for this… up to five compelling theories:

1.) Being three days after the darkest day of the year in the Northern hemisphere (the only hemisphere that's ever been worth a fuck), December 22nd, maybe some kind-hearted old King thought the 25th would be a nice day for people to celebrate the beating, whipping, stabbing in the side with a spear, pounding of nails through the hands and feet, crowning with thorns and all the rest of the stuff they supposedly did to some dude 20 centuries ago, though it's not exactly well-documented historical fact. Can we prove Ghengis Khan (my personal hero) existed? Hell yeah! Jesus? Mmm. That becomes a "George Michael Issue" (i.e. one of faith).

When my teachers used to ask, "Can your suffering compare to that of our Lord on the cross?" I said, "Not yet, but I've read some stories about Russian prisons where, well (I chuckled), let's just say if you offered those torture victims the deal Jesus got, they'd take it in a heartbeat!" And although the psychiatrist wrote fun phrases like "aversion to authority" on my reports, the truth was I knew I was right. Plus, I would have preferred it if they'd written "allergic to dogma" – after all, my story may be one of tremendous significance one day.

2.) It's some kind of bullshit and no one knows who when or why someone thought of it, but someone figured out it would be a good opportunity to sell glittering red signs that say, "Ho Ho Ho", and that person was probably of some weird sort of German or Nordic descent, and probably knew what the Celtic celebration of "Jul" really was or some such shit.

In other words, it was some fruity European's idea to make money and pay off his/her creditors. Or, quite possibly, just another way to get nicely loaded on mountain after mountain of high-grade coke.

3.) It funds military black budgets.

4.) We're not a miserable deformed ape that somehow survived, invented fire and climaxed in George W. Bush conquering the world (and resolving issues with his Dad), then, having reached our pinnacle, fucking imploded! We're perfect! We were created in the image of God, bleeding asses, semen-dripping urethras and all that, for it is perfection and yes, you may refer to me in your conversations with others as "His Enlightened Holiness" from this day forward.

5.) A Catholic explained it to me this way once: You're supposed to have sex only 13 times a year; once a month on the anniversary of your birthday, and on Christmas, or if your birthday's on Christmas, then only twelve times – NO BREAKS! He also said, "Just because God forgives you doesn't mean you're not going to Hell." That's right motherfucker - you're going to TWISTED EDGE!

* When we say "you" we refer to "the wretched, unwashed masses who hate us but read the site religiously for reasons unknown to anyone".

** We've stopped trying to figure the guy out, and we suggest you do the same, or risk cerebral meltdown.

*** It's like Dr. Seuss for psychopaths, but I guess that's a good thing as far as you readers are concerned.

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Click here to go back to the home page Click here to see our foolish and drunken attempts at humour Click here to read our humiliation of the worst cinematic abortions the movie industry has to offer Click here to see some of the most bizarre news the web's ever puked out

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