Secret Santa is a shitty Christmas habit, isn’t it?
Which foolhardy, fucktarded cretin decided to import this American turd sandwich as a new tradition?
“Do you want to do Secret Santa?”
If you don’t partake you’re a grinchly curmudgeon, though if you do partake, you choose Remainiac Richard the office prick who reads The Guardian, likes cats, and boils people’s urine at 50 yards. It’s even worse when you have to open your gift and pretend to be excited by ‘crazy socks’. At the time of year when moolah is the tightest, we have to spend more time and money shopping.
“Do you want to do Secret Santa?”
Look at the variety of colleagues for whom you could buy but who irritate you or bore the skin off your bones: The loud, zit-ridden ball-ache with a permanent odour of fast food; the aloof arsehole with the wan face who spends the weekend either jogging or decorating; the irksome, over-sprightly homo with a manicured goatee constantly blithering about ‘celeb cuwture’; the vexatious, token EastEuro trash, endlessly complaining about Britain but NEVER FUCKING LEAVING; the overweight, over-confident, over-judgemental gorgon who wears dresses as if she’s the correct side of forty and slides “my church” into every mundane, tedious conversation. Marvellous. I wonder which cunt I’ll choose this year.
“Do you want to do Secret Santa?”
Only if I can give you a calendar from PoundLand with a different decapitated cat for each month; or perhaps a box of fancy biscuits that I made myself and into which I mixed some tapeworm eggs that I ordered from a Ukrainian website then baked at the appropriate temperature, placed in a festive box, and all tied-up with a cute, Christmas ribbon.
Nominated by Captain Magnanimous
