Dear Santa Claus: Go Fuck Yourselftrailer Park ... -

This post captures the gritty, bourbon-soaked spirit of a trailer park Christmas, where the lights are tangled, the heater is broken, and the holiday cheer is served in a dented tin cup. Dear Santa Claus: Go Fuck Yourself Dear Santa,

Every year, you fly over the park like we’re some kind of no-fly zone. I see the sleigh tracks on the roofs of the McMansions across the highway, but down here? The only thing we get delivered is a "Past Due" notice from the utility company and another dusting of snow that just highlights the rust on the El Camino. You want a list? Here’s my list: Dear Santa Claus: Go Fuck YourselfTrailer Park ...

If I could go one Christmas Eve without hearing the neighbors in 4B settle their grievances with a tire iron, that’d be a real holiday treat. This post captures the gritty, bourbon-soaked spirit of

Not the kind that smells like burning hair and regret, but one that actually puts out heat before June. The only thing we get delivered is a

We don’t need your “magic,” fat man. Around here, we make our own. We’ve got a bonfire going in a trash bin, a radio playing a scratchy version of Blue Christmas , and enough grit to get through another year without a handout from the North Pole.

So, take your reindeer, take your judgmental "naughty or nice" list, and keep flying. We’re doing just fine in the mud. Merry Christmas to everyone except the guy in the red suit.

I’m writing this by the glow of a single strand of flickering multi-colored lights—half of which are burnt out—taped to the side of a 1974 single-wide. I’d tell you to “Ho-Ho-Ho” your way down the chimney, but since we don’t have one, and the roof is currently held together by a prayer and some industrial-grade tarp, you’d probably just fall through and crush my last good recliner. So, let’s be real for a second: Go fuck yourself.