Happy Boxing Day!

 (By Cyril Blubberpuss, Conservative-American)

Bah, humbug! Yes, I'm cribbing from my favorite literary hero of all time. What the hell's the sense of calling it Boxing Day when I can't find even one good boxing match on TV outside of ESPN Classic? Isn't that guy Rocky Marciano still boxing? What about that new up and comer, Cassius Clay? What's a corporate titan to do to watch some fisticuffs? I was reduced to bringing up a couple of those pantywaist Nancy Boys from Accounting to duke it out in my office.

     One of my English counterparts at Barclays told me that Boxing Day is in reality when the 1% give out bonuses to their hired help in gift boxes. I told him that was a fucked up idea not to mention a cruel pun on boxing. I mean, what the fuck good is getting a Christmas bonus after Christmas? And what's this shit I hear that it's only observed in England and Canada? I mean, weren't we Americans the ones who inventing boxing, to begin with?

     Of course, my kid brother Cecil would rather opt for junior high boy's wrestling matches except for Cecil, every day is boy's junior high wrestling day. 

 

     And Bertha? Well, I just can't keep her out of those bars where guys generally don't go, especially the ones in Greenwich Village that feature jello and mud wrestling between just women on Wednesday night.

     And I can't even count on a good political dead-catting. My friend Donald Trump announced his candidacy for the presidency just a few weeks ago and so far, not a single limp-wristed pencil neck from the Republican Party has the guts to take on Trump two years before Election Day, which shows just what a dominant candidate he is.

     Just before Christmas, I flew on my private jet down to Palm Beach to see my old friend. What I saw when I got there alarmed me. Donald was in his bathrobe, climbing the eaves and cornices, playing the part of the Phantom of Mar a Lago and piercing my eardrums with cat-like screams.

     After he was talked down by the Palm Beach Police Department (Since it was almost Christmas, they were kind enough to forgive him for partially eating a Cuban chambermaid named Rosie, especially after he tried to buy the grieving family's silence by offering them discounted NFTs of himself as a nude Ron Jeremy), he was sufficiently recovered enough to dress in his golf outfit and we played the front nine.

     "I dunno what the fuck it is, Cyril," he said to me as he took his third consecutive mulligan from the rough, "it seems the only people who want to fight me these days are black women lawyers."

    Well, he didn't exactly say "black" and "women" but we live in an age of liberal fascist political correctness and that goes double for the execrable Nazi that runs this left wing sewer of a blog.

     Anyway, after my friend Donald beaned one of his Secret Service agents and made a fist pump while saying, "Bullseye! That's as a good as a hole in one, right, Cyril?", we continued our talk.

     By now, Donald's scorecard looked like a chicken full of ink had shit all over it but I said, "Yes, sir!" like a good Republican as we headed to the 19th Hole.

     "Take that black woman in Georgia who's going after me," he said without actually saying "black" and "woman". "That was the most perfect phone call since Capone ordered the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre in '29. They didn't get him for that, did they? No, he was stupid and they got him for tax evasion," he said, his face scrunched up in disbelief as he played the air accordion.

     "Well, sir, I'm sure other Republicans will stupidly jump into the fray when they decide it's time to get mauled by you in the primaries," I said.

     "Yeah, like L'il Marco and that fucking alien, Rick Scott. I wouldn't put it past that old crow Mitch McConnell to throw his hat in the ring with Coco Chow standing behind him."

     "Well, sir, your campaign's been a bit... moribund," I replied.

     "What about the Bund? Sh, that'll come later."

     "No, sir, moribund, meaning they're saying your campaign lacks energy."

     "Oh, the fake media? Fuck them! I'm playing rope a dope with the others, lulling them into a sense of false security. Hey, think I can eat that waitress?" Then he ripped off his sweaty golf clothes as he chased a screaming waitress, As he took to the rafters with another cat scream, a document labeled "Top Secret" about some alien invasion that's going to take place on New Year's Day 2023 fluttered down. After wondering if Rick Scott had a hand in that, I left to go back to New York.

 

      I wonder if we can resurrect the true meaning of Boxing Day, which is bribing women with little chocolate treats so they'll beat the shit out of each other for male approval. Hey, maybe Donald can run on that while he's not trying to consume female employees.