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“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”I shouted, then threw my duffel over the gunwale, raising the ire of the beefy longshoremen below. "What da fuck?" belched one of the cargo monkies. "It's just me, SANTA," I tee-heed while scurrying down the gangway like so many a gay rat before. Waiting below was Dres, my immense German plumberjack. I felt like Jimmy Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy--all gollies, skips, and Broadway. “Ver haf you been bitchroach?” Dres gleefully rumbled as we embraced like Portuguese. “Somewhere I am never, ever going again.” I teared-up and began half-choking from the emotion and Dres’s tusk-like arms. “Schnell, ve get dunkles bier und wurst,” clucked the big Nazi hen. Randy as I was, there was something I needed to do first. “I’ll meet you at The Fistpole in two hours,” I blurted as I tore from his cavendish blend scented chest.


My garments flowed like bloody sand into the gulf as I arabed across the avenue. “Gotta do this—no going back this time—got-to-do-this,” I panted aloud, interspersing my encouragement with self-hatred. “You are a heathen- coward--afraid of analingus, afraid of certain condiments, afraid to live--but dammit--this time YOU WILL LIVE!!” As I bellowed the final words--from the very depths of my being--a hitherto unknown warmth and acceptance emenated from my shockras.

At last I reached the apartment. I would finally treat my handicapped brother Terry with the respect and compassion I had long denied him out of pure resentment and jealousy.

“Terrence!” I threw open the bedroom door to find him peacefully asleep as Vivaldi soothed from the stereo and a pale nightlight illuminated a Christmas angel on his bedside table. He awoke slowly, like a child too young for fear. “Oh my God!” he immediately wept, “You came back! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.” Now we both wept and hugged and talked about how tough it had been since our parents died and how we would never again allow distance and time to separate us. “What do you think of my Christmas angel?” he said, smiling through the tears. “You know I made it at the workshop for people with physical disabilities.”

“It’s lovely, truly lovely Terry,” I replied as my heart swelled.

“And check this out.” He flicked a switch and the entire room was aglow in a glorious display of red, green, blue, yellow, and white Christmas lights carefully patterned to look like Wrigley Park, complete with a diamond, bases, and different colors for the home and away teams, and even dangled strands of green for the ivy.
Terrence had been a hell of a ballplayer, but he had never once discussed baseball since the accident fourteen years ago now. I was happy to see that he was moving past his misfortune and going somewhere with his life. We talked about the display and then I suggested we go up to the roof deck and look at the Christmas lights like we used to do when mom and dad were still alive. Together we gazed at the expanse of holiday lighting that frosted the cityscape. Somehow the lights just looked brighter this year. Terrence was so happy. He was almost smug.

Ever since the accident, he had gotten all the attention. Fact was, I could never actually devote this much time to a cripple and Dres was waiting for me to knock wurst.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” I shouted as I shoved Terrence--in that annoying electric wheelchair of his--fourteen stories to the alley.

Maybe I would try analingus tonight...or mayonnaise...or a combination of the two!

Date Written: December 13, 2004
Author: hagit mizrachy
Average Vote: 2.3333

Comments:
12/29/2004 TheBuyer: anilingus, Wrigley Field, chakras, douche.
12/29/2004 scoop (2): This has got a real food-died-macaroni-glued to-construction paper creativity to it.
12/29/2004 The Rid (2): Wow. This is really bad. Although the Querelle-ness of the opening makes me want to like it, but I can't. An extra star for forcing it.
12/29/2004 The Rid: Sheesh, I'm a dick. It's not "really bad," but it is two stars.
12/29/2004 hagit mizrachy: Whew, maybe I shouldn't have pumped my New Years short earlier. It appears not to have lived up to the billing. And I must admit, Scoop is correct with regard to the nature of the creativity. But as its the kind I like, I may need to find an audience of 16-year-old boys to impress.
12/29/2004 Litcube (3): Some of the flavour here is in the inrto, but does this SHORT really require 601 words to tell this particular joke?
12/30/2004 anonymous: Querelle! All the Querelles of the Fighting Navy! Beautiful sailors, you taste sweet, like wild oats.