Chapter 5: God Himself, like Mike Tyson, stomping on your children’s testicles

Another metallic clank and a whomp whomp. Muffled cries echoed from the back of the vehicle. Santa then crinkled his nose in revulsion and stabbed a finger at the dashboard, clicked on Clay Travis and Buck Sexton’s radio show.

“They like to think God Himself went and offed us, like He was stomping on a cockroach. But, no sir, He wasn’t hanging upside down from Kobe’s helicopter.”

Santa swallowed the end of the blunt, belched, and set the Caddy on cruise control. His bloated face blanched. Then he reached in the open glove compartment, plucked out another from the pile of pre-rolled blunts.

“God Himself, like Mike Tyson, stomping on your children’s testicles,” Santa muttered, and effortlessly Santa clipped the blunt in between his thin red lips, bit into the blunt like a hot dog, and then touched his finger, ala ET, and flicked the blunt’s tip ablaze, and a string of grayish smoke curled to the sunroof.

“There never was an answer. There were more questions. Joe Rogan killed Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Ate the red-nosed fucker alive, raw, like a zombie, as the animal was twitching and coughing blood bubbles ... Fucking socialists, Rand Paul’s neighbor, they had no problem carjacking me for my flying wheelchair, no sir...