I’m 30 today.

That is all.

I could go on about how unaccomplished I am.

But that is all.

Sure 30 is the new 20.

Is that right?

That’s all, is what that is.

Santa brought me a Blu Ray DVD player for christmas.

What can I say?  It’s brilliant.  The picture quality, the sound, and yes I’m a DVD geek, so the added extras are mega.

I got Terminator 2 on Blu Ray and watched it twice, it’s that good.

The picture is so clear it’s like the T-1000 is right in front of me squishing his way around the living room.  It’s so clear that Sarah Connor’s nipples poke me right in the eye through her mental home vest.  It’s so clear that I got sunburned from the nuclear apocalypse scenes.

Then I had enough of future cyborgs and robots so I went out and bought what Blu Ray was really invented for – a great big filthy porn flick.

The picture is so clear that I can see right into the dead eyes of the “actresses” and guage how much they’re dying inside with each thrust.  It’s so clear that I can see inside the head of each bleach blonde splooge sucker and see what her true hair colour is.

It’s so fucking clear that I can get a pretty acurate sperm count from the money shot.

Bloke #23 in the bukkake scene should probably get himself checked out.

I’m an international spy involved in a huge conspiracy to rid the world of peanut butter.  The world’s leaders are worried that peanuts are in depletion and one single evil genius in his hollowed out giant red sequoia tree is behind the whole thing.  He was known as Professor Nutsnshit.

Just because he didn’t like the special edition KitKat Chunky Peanut Butter bars.  He felt they were a travesty against his favourite afternoon tea break treat.

I had all manner of spy toys at my disposal – a zippo lighter that expelled a pheromone making all women in the vacinity instantly moist.  A belt buckle that had the ability to tell the future, but only sometimes.  And last but not least my car keys that transformed into a wise cracking owl who moonlighted as a tabloid newspaper editor who took no shit from anyone.

Anyway, long story short, I infiltrated the Professor’s giant Red Sequoia and used my zippo lighter to slide into every one of his sexy stripper guards.  The fact that they were all Christina Ricci and Emma Bunton clones didn’t even phase me.  They all got even wetter when I sucked the toes off of them.  My belt buckle finally stumbled on the winning lotto numbers for the future and gave me the middle finger, after telling me what he really thought of me.  And the wise cracking no shit taking car keys owl sat me and the professor down for an intervention.  He reckoned that we were both acting totally whack and told us that there was only one way to finish the whole thing – a Jenga tournament.

Whoever won the best of three games of Jenga would decide the fate of peanuts and peanut butter products.  A quick call to world president, Isla Fisher and the terms were agreed.

I won the tournament and allowed the world’s peanut industry to flourish.  The world rejoiced and world president Fisher called me to the presidential suite in the nearest Best Western guesthouse for a celebratory foot job.

Professor Nutsnshit set up a charity for all nut allergy sufferers everywhere and successfully lobbied to have the “may contain nuts” warning printed on packets of dry roasted peanuts the world over.

President Fisher made me her first dude and we kept the Ricci / Bunton clones as our pets and while we were honeymooning in our sex caravan my belt buckle turned up to beg for his job back.  Turns out he really can tell the future only some of the time.

We make up and wisecrack about gambling with our futures and the credits roll as we laugh heartily.

That’s what happens when you go to bed after a dozen Jack Daniels and Coke’s, four bottles of Corona, Jesus knows how many butterscotch shots, turkey and ham sandwiches and mince pies with melted blue cheese, that seemed like a good idea at the time, all before you go to bed.

I’m kinda glad I’m back to work today.

Yes I got all I was hinting for and more, but I’m still not happy.

Where is the Charlotte Church I asked for?

Where is the drunk and self loathing Alyson Hannigan with freshly pedicured toes I asked for?

Where is the not quite sure if they want to turn lesbian Sabrina the Teenage Witch and Charlize Theron that I have to give therapy to?

Fuck you Santa.

If I travelled around to people’s houses once a year praying on young kids and promising gifts for being good and sleeping all the way through my visit, you can bet your bollocks I’d be on the business end of a tabloid headline.

I’m onto you.

Giant sack indeed.

I love christmas, y’know?  Well ah’ duzn’t, ah’ hate da damn fucker.  Ah be baaad… It’s all about da damn kids and ah’ duzn’t gots any.

Slap mah fro!

Dis means dat ah’ duzn’t gots’ta wo’ry about da damn fads uh whuteva’ toy be popular dis year.  Ah be baaad… ah’ hate da damn shoppin’ wuz dudes run around tryin’ t’decide if deir wives would prefa’ a knive set o’ some new ironin’ bo’d cover.

Ah be baaad… And da damn honky chicks crowdin’ de shops stealin’ doodads dat dey plum duzn’t need.

Boxes and boxes uh chocolates, biscuits and sweets.

Sprouts.

Who needs dese smelly cabbage wannabe bastards?  Dey stink down de crib fo’ ages, and da damn stink only digs wo’se by de time youse “finished” wid dem.  WORD!

Selecshun boxes.  Chocolate Santa’s.  Tins uh Quality Street.  Man!  Trifles.

Christmas should mosey on down wid some “may cause diabetes” warnin’.  I’m spreadin’ de christmas jeer, cuz’ bein’ miserable be whut Christmas be all about. Man!  De soaps on tv wouldn’t honky jibe to us about dat, dat’s how ah’ know, so cut me some slack, Jack.

And da damn santa dude who comes upside and gives yo’ children gifts when youse asleep?  But dey gots’ta be baaaad o’ dey won’t dig nuthin?  Sounds likes some puh’vert t’me.

“Keep yo’ eyes closed, cuz’ if he dinks youse awake, ya’ won’t dig nuthin”

Yeah, mo’e likes, go t’a happy place and ya”ll dig some present t’keep ya’ quiet after.

Ah be baaad… And duzn’t dig me started about da damn fact dat by de time he’s visited all de kids, he’s gots an empty sack.  Ya’ know?  Dink about dat. Man!