GREENMUSE is a regular reader and fan contributor at antiMUSIC, the views expressed here don't necessarily reflect those of antiMUSIC or our sponsors, but we are sure you will enjoy what he has to say! 

What’s it going to be then, eh? Here it is December and the nochy’s are getting a malenkey bit cold in some areas, and even slightly so here in my shed of doom. the wind howls like Liza Minelli on a vanilla extract bender. Yessiree Bob, its Christmas time! I’ve stopped liking Christmas since I’ve grown old enough to be out in the mauls shopping for loved ones. I’ve hated Xmas since I’ve been the one to bring in the overpriced tree and get sap all over my hands while doing so. Then one night that all changed....

You may have heard Santa isn’t real, a sham, a hoax. But I stand before you to tell you the versa of that vice. It was a cold lonely night and I had just settled down with a glass of something green, and a funny little spoon in which to stir it. I had taken a small sip when I heard a bit of a racket. Why it sounded like a Chevy 454, Holley double pumped. Tires screeched, engine roared, when i looked to see what made such a heavenly sound, i saw on my lawn a 1979 Camaro parked where my mailbox had once been standing so regal. it now laid in a crumpled heap under a Mickey Thompson wrapped Crager mag wheel. I grabbed my bat, ready to beat some drunk’s hieny, but once out there I had to laugh, for it was a burly man in an ill fitting Santa suit, he smelled of urine and Mexican scotch. I knew then I had a keeper.

Standing over him, i asked if he is ok. he replied with a mumble and turned over to doze. his hat fell off and the light shined just right on his head of pure white hair. i realized then just who my new lodger was! All is forgiven for he is the fabled great white mullet of the north! My knees quaked as I run to the phone, I must phone DeadSun, he will help me bag this trophy of trophies. The phone rings and rings, finally an elderly woman answers the phone. 

Woman: hello? *loud music in background with lots of yelling*

Muse: yes, *panting out of breath* I must talk to the brave sir sun

Woman: are you trying to sell me something? I have my grandson’s party to get back to. We have enough euro sealers! Goodbye *hangs up*

Dial tone, the most infernal dial tone known to man surrounds me as I reel from the thought of having to take this fellow on my self. I peek from the window and see the Camaro, but I didn’t see my visitor, only the indentation in the sand accompanied by a puddle of vomit to mark his being there. I settle back down in my chair and sip once more of liquid summer and flip on the DVD player to finish watching “Rude Boy”, and right when Percy accompanies the band to sing white riot, I hear the contents of the fridge spilling across the floor. i fall to the floor with hands clutching my ears, surely this is madness, he cannot exist!

But exist he does, he sits in my chair and asks me to sit on his lap and tell him what i want for Xmas. Eyeing the strange stains that seem to form concentric circles towards his lap, I try to decline, he calls me a “insolent bastard” and pulls my arm until I’m on his lap. ”wellsh now listle boy, what ish it you wantsh for xmas?”and then punctuates this sentence with a burp smelling of chilidogs and Mexican scotch. This is some sort of powerful knock out gas or something, so I soon find myself telling this bloke what I want for Xmas like an excited little boy in a free yu gi oh warehouse.

“well mister great mullet of the north, I would like: Ashton Kutcher to be impaled by a 64 impala, a black telecaster, Rolling Stone to be realized for the crap mag it really is, chingy to be stuffed in Missy Elliot’s butt and the pair locked in a cage with a rabid tit mouse. I want..” At this point Santa interrupts me and tosses me the keys to his Camaro. with that he pours white powder onto my tin olf altoids and forms it into a line, he gives a wink then puts a finger to his nose and makes that powder disappear! In a flash he is gone as well and I’m left with the odor of urine to remind me he was there. Scratching my head I walk to the door to look at my new acquisition, and alas it is gone. I still have the keys and the fob attached that reads ”ass, grass or cash, nobody rides for free”.

Greenmuse loves to hear from you, post a message below or send him an email at greenmuse@antimusic.com (he does get some rather strange emails from time to time... there was this one from a 14 punker girl who asked him if he wanted to...) 
 
 

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