Bad Vibes Xmas 2021
Could you call it a Christmas miracle?
Perhaps it wasn’t. But maybe, just maybe, it was the greatest Christmas miracle that ever was…
(The ArtHole Christmas Special)
Exhibit A:
Fried Holiday Stocking [The Holiday Tradition Explained]
Fried Holiday Stocking [The Holiday Tradition Explained] - On Christmas Eve, the family gathers in tense silence, smearing their names in blood-red on small woolen stockings. Herbs and spices fail to mask the rotten stench of something far more sinister. Stuffed with chunks of flesh and oozing sweets, the stockings bulge grotesquely, pulsing with a dark secret. 1. The Frying Ceremony: In the dim kitchen, the family watches as the stuffed stockings are plunged into bubbling oil. The hiss of searing flesh fills the air, the stockings writhing and crisping to a sickening golden brown. 2. The Stocking Reveal: The fried stockings are laid out as a grotesque centerpiece. In silence, the family selects their charred stocking, dreading what horrors might lie within. 3. The Feast: The first bite is cautious, teeth crunching through the hardened crust. Flavors of comfort and revulsion mix, laughter strained as the family savors the twisted warmth of their shared ritual. 4. A Symbol of Togetherness: The Fried Stocking Feast, dark and binding, draws the family closer in its shared perversion—a tradition where love and terror intertwine.
Exhibit B: NOG of Christmas Future [Bushwick 2051]
NOG of Christmas Future: [Bushwick 2051] - It's been 30 years since Joe Biden finally outlawed Christmas. Mall Santas were the first to go, dragged off by their snowy beards, one by one, to the reeducation gulags. Then they came for the carolers, those sweet, sweatered songbirds cut off mid-tra-la-la by the cold rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire. There was a nativity-scene bonfire on the Whitehouse lawn, a foul conflagration of baby jesuses, plastic donkeys, and various Magi, faces melting off and running together in a swimming pool-size puddle of liquid Christmas. Just to make sure people couldn't celebrate, they made all trees illegal. Hell, a casual "merry Christmas," tossed across a picket fence to a neighbor can get you 5 years in the slammer, if noticed by the P.C. Rightspeak drones, which buzz endlessly above the now-everpresent neon pink acid rain clouds. But there's a small group of us fighting back--trying to reclaim the old ways and relight the Christmas spark, though we've forgotten much about this once-great holiday. A lot of what we know comes from this decades-old jug of eggnog, stored underground for future generations. It might look like a gross plastic pitcher of chunky yellow effluence, but it holds the secrets of the Yule, the very essence of Christmas cheer. Our chemists say they're only a year or two away from reverse engineering the recipe. Until then, every Christmas, I and my compatriots each drink one thimbleful of this wretched, blessed cocktail, to keep the original spirit alive within us. The vomiting is almost worth it. Of course, we wouldn't have to, if only someone had done something to keep the Christmas spirit alive all those years ago, in 2020, now regarded by historians as a relatively fun year when everyone was feeling great, at least compared to everything that came after it. If only someone in 2020 could hear me, I'd tell them to scream "Merry Christmas" directly into the faces of strangers, to demand figgy pudding by the sword if necessary, to feel cheer even if it kills them lest they find themselves, like me, a lost soul, drinking the fetid nog of the future damned.
Exhibit C: The Moose-Jaw Menorah
Introducing the "Moose-Jaw Menorah," a holiday centerpiece that’s as bold as it is bizarre! Crafted from an authentic moose jawbone, this menorah adds a wild twist to your Hanukkah festivities with its rugged charm. Each candleholder is nestled between sharp, impressive teeth that give your candles a truly edgy vibe. Light up your celebration with a touch of the untamed.
Exhibit D: The Knife or “Michael’s Magical Miracle”: [An ArtHole Christmas Tale]
“Michael’s Magical Miracle”: [An ArtHole Christmas Tale] - The wind blew Michael Flaherty into the shipping container, a swirl of snowflakes fluttering in the air around him on the frigid winter day. “Congratulate me on my recent charity work, boys,” he boomed joyfully. “Bah, humbug,” Jed, his studiomate muttered, not looking up from his computer monitor. Every other Tuesday, Michael visited the Bushwick Home for Old Mariners, where he played dominoes with Saltwater Slim, a 102-year-old boat captain with an eyepatch who claimed to be a veteran of two world wars, three regular wars, and one cola war. Slim relished the visits, though he often reverted to a sort of childlike state, and each time, he seemed to forget who, exactly, Michael was. “You’re not Santy Claus?” he’d wheeze suspiciously at the bearded artist. “No,” Michael would reply each time, rolling his eyes. “Not every big dude is Santa. Now take your medicine old man,” he’d say, shoving a bottle of hooch into the sailor’s shaking, withered paw. Jed finally looked up from his computer to see Michael was dressed in a red-and-white, fur-trimmed suit. “What day is today, boy?” he asked. Michael answered, “why it’s Christmas day. And I’m finally going to give that wrinkly codger what he’s been looking for. Today is the day he gets a visit from Santa.” Even outside the Old Mariner’s home, Michael could hear Slim’s screechy voice, seemingly berating a nurse, who the old sailor kept calling “Admiral Bligh.” When he saw Michael his rheumatic eyes opened wide, and for the first time in 35 years he stood up from his wheelchair, ancient legs shaking as he built up speed, arms outstretched like a wee boy eager to hug jolly old Saint Nick. It wasn’t til the last second that Michael saw the box cutter in his hand. Minutes later there was blood everywhere and both men were being rushed to the hospital. The stress was too much for old Slim, who soon passed on, according to the hospital chaplain, with a smile on his lips, his last words, which he hissed in a thin, raspy whisper, were “tell Michael. Tell him I finally killed that smug bastard Santa Claus. It was unclear what his grudge against Pere Noel was exactly, but in a weird, unfortunate way, Michael had succeeded in granting an old man’s greatest wish, and on Christmas too. When Michael awoke hours later in a hospital bed, he found himself surrounded by the beeps and hums of medical equipment, which filtered in through the haze of industrial-strength pain killers. The doctor walked through the door, clipboard in her hand. “Looks like Santa’s back. We weren’t sure you were going to make it there for a second,” she said. Michael suddenly recalled what had happened, as the doctor began, “Listen I’m a woman of science,” she said, but there’s no explanation for what I saw here tonight.” The chunk Slim had cut out of Michael’s left side with the box cutter, she explained, had contained a rare infection called a “mungus” a cross between a mold, a virus, and a fungus, usually only found in the world’s most rotten sandwiches. “Have you been eating rotten sandwiches?” asked the doctor. “No,” said Michael, lying. At any time, the mungus could have traveled to Michael’s brain, after which his cerebellum would have dissolved and melted out through his nostrils. The stabbing, traumatic as it may have been, also saved his life. Could you call it a Christmas miracle? Perhaps it wasn’t. But maybe, just maybe, it was the greatest Christmas miracle that ever was.
Exhibit E: The Sandwich
The Sandwich - As Covid began its cruel spread across New York, little did anyone know that something even more sinister and foul was being bred in a drawer in a desk, in a shipping container in Brooklyn. It was once an ordinary peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the very embodiment of wholesome, American goodness. But half eaten, neglected, and riddled with exotic parasites, the sandwich began a dark journey. It was bathed in secondhand smokes, nibbled on by diseased rats, and bathed in pungent turpenoid vapours until the very DNA of the sandwich began to mutate, cultivating something never before seen by god or man—the first-ever cross between a mold, a virus, and a fungus. Dubbed “the mungus” by baffled scientists, the colorful patina gilding the former PB&J is a singularly vile pathogen, causing immediate swelling of the genitals and acute elongation of the ears upon inhalation. Over the next several weeks, victims will experience intermittent “jimmy knee” and eventually, the skull begins to shrink, squeezing out the brain’s juices, which run in rivulets out the nose, until death occurs. Is it contagious? I’m glad you asked. It’s very contagious. But don’t worry: you, the viewer of this exhibit, are protected from this deadly scourge by patented ZipLock technology. Of course, if it ever got out, life as we know it would disappear, as this new, wild form of life overruns and chokes out the old order, surging over the mountains of endless corpses until there is nothing but the heat, the cool whistle of the wind across the endless, open plain, and the mungus—only the mungus.
Exhibit F: DUDE is DEAD
DUDE is DEAD - For a period in the summer of 2018, we were visited by “Dude,” a lanky, blonde, tattooed rock-n-roll type, who would stumble in here each morning, greet us politely, and then ask us if we perhaps had any eggs he could have. Everyone liked Dude, and if you asked around most people seemed to believe he was a friend of Michael Flaherty, in from the West Coast. And yet, Michael seemed to believe Dude was part of a touring band that had crashed here one night and just never left. In any case, Michael took a shine to the guy, and even decorated Dude’s white jumpsuit, which you can see here on display today. It’s usually annoying when people refer to themselves in the third person, but it was always funny when, after asking for eggs, he’d cheerfully tell us “Dude is dead,” before making his exit. The thing is, he wasn’t joking: one day, he disappeared and when we went looking, we discovered this dried-up corpse in the long-abandoned upper shipping container. According to the coroner, he had been there at least 65 years, although he was still wearing the very jumpsuit Michael had drawn on only weeks earlier. We were allowed to keep the body as a souvenir, although we never did find out what the whole egg thing was all about.
Exhibit G: Glory To The Newborn King!
Glory To the Newborn King! - Santa Claus had one too many eggnogs and stumbled into what he thought was a chimney, but it was actually a hole, of the glorious type. Confused but ever jolly, he started passing through candy canes and tiny gifts, much to the surprise of those on the other side. "Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!" he bellowed, thinking he was spreading holiday cheer. Little did he know, he was spreading a different kind of surprise that night!