Dear Pittman,
No, I do not believe in Santa Clause. But if he did exist, I'd fuck him up.
He works too hard. I'm not a fan of hard work. I avoid it whenever possible. Easy to do in prison.
The very idea of Santa Clause stresses me out. Spend all year supervising a factory full of fucking elves. Screwing some old lady. Delivering tens of millions of packages in one night. Sliding his fat ass in and out of chimneys. Breaking into fucking houses. Shit. I don't even want to hear a made-up story about somebody working that hard.
Jim
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Christmas with Jim Gooch
Dear Pittman,
Thank you for sharing your fondest Christmas memories with me.
When I think of my boyhood Christmases growing up in Sherwood, two things generally come to mind. I think of my mother, Dorothy Gooch. Of the time when I was eleven and we hit a deer with our car. Standing in the snow watching mother kneeling over the wounded whimpering fawn. The muscles in her arms tested by the weight of the axe as she brings it to rest with a cleaving squish in the neck of the baby deer.
So Christmas always reminds me of the time my mother decapitated a baby deer...
And it also reminds me of anal sex.
Sincerely,
Jim Gooch
Thank you for sharing your fondest Christmas memories with me.
When I think of my boyhood Christmases growing up in Sherwood, two things generally come to mind. I think of my mother, Dorothy Gooch. Of the time when I was eleven and we hit a deer with our car. Standing in the snow watching mother kneeling over the wounded whimpering fawn. The muscles in her arms tested by the weight of the axe as she brings it to rest with a cleaving squish in the neck of the baby deer.
So Christmas always reminds me of the time my mother decapitated a baby deer...
And it also reminds me of anal sex.
Sincerely,
Jim Gooch
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