Sausagey Santa by Iii Carlton Mellick

 
     
    I never should have married a woman named Decapitron.
    It’s more like the name of an evil transformer than the name of a wife. Her given name was Susanne Lewis, but she has gone by Decapitron ever since she was a little kid and got it legally changed when she turned eighteen. I’d prefer if she went by Susanne but she says she’ll annihilate me if I ever call her by that name.
    I should have listened to my mom when she told me “you just can’t trust a woman named Decapitron.” She was right. Decapitron is unpredictable. She’s like a flesh-bag of nitroglycerin that’s ready to explode at the drop of a hat.
    I could have married any woman. When I was younger, the ladies were always swooning over me. I could have had any of them. I could have married a supermodel. Maybe I never should have married any woman at all and stayed a swinging bachelor for the rest of my life. I mean, I’m a wild man. I have one of the most stylish hairdos anyone has ever seen. I call my hairstyle ‘the sly guy’ and I like to make guns with my fingers and point them at people when I walk down the sidewalk.
     
     
    It’s Christmas Eve. I’m in the living room bobbing my head to Jingle Bell Rock while drinking brandy eggnog out of a snowman-shaped mug, trying to figure out a way to work off my beer belly without actually doing any exercise.
    Decapitron is in the kitchen with the twins baking a cake for Jesus’ birthday tomorrow. It’s one of her stupid family’s stupid traditions. On Christmas Day, she always lights candles on a cake and forces us to sing Happy Birthday to Jesus. She puts up balloons and party decorations, with a banner that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JESUS! stretched across the dining room wall.
    It’s pretty awesome that her family was killed in a car accident earlier this year. I can finally enjoy my Christmas without having to listen to her dwarfish father’s racist jokes or her mother’s retarded opinions concerning the sexiness of women with hairy armpits (namely, herself). They should have had the decency to die years ago, like my parents did. My parents rocked. They knew how to get morbidly obese in their youth and die middle- aged. I hope to be just like them.
     
     
    I chug down the nog and sneak over to the Christmas tree to check out my presents. The Christmas tree is about seventeen feet high and ten feet wide. We get a bigger tree every year. Decapitron cut a hole in the ceiling just so we can fit bigger trees into our house at Christmas time. Upstairs, in our bedroom, the top of the tree comes out of the floor and forms another normal-sized tree near the foot of our bed. She says she likes the smell of pine trees when she wakes up in the morning.
    I squat down and crawl underneath the enormous tree, pretending like I am exploring a vast cavern full of colorfully-patterned rocks. Examining the rocks . . . Hmm, there doesn’t seem to be many presents for me under here. Decapitron usually only gets me one thing for Christmas: piercings. She’s got a metal fetish and ever since we started dating she’s forced me to get more and more things pierced. Not my face, mind you. She doesn’t think a good family man should have piercings that show, so all fifty-six of my piercings are concealed under my clothing. My entire torso is completely studded. It’s like I’m covered in steel freckles.
    I don’t want any piercings. I don’t really like them. Decapitron forces me to get them, though. She tells me that if I ever even think about removing any of my piercings she will annihilate me.
    There’s really only two things I want for Christmas:
    1)                Cannibal Death Cop on DVD
    2)                 the new Spelunker CD.
    Spelunker is my favorite band ever. They are the leading group of a new genre of music called Adventure Rock. It is the kind of music that Indiana Jones would listen to if he was a real person. Adventure Rock bands sing about cool stuff like