Greetings and salutations.
It’s that time of year when everyone loosens up, relaxes and gets set to apply some DOMINATION to a massive feast. While you non-professional athletes may stuff your faces full of turkey and booze yourselves into a frenzy, the 25th of December for THE HASK is just a normal day. I shall, of course, go for a strenuous workout, before I put on my favourite banana hammock (the one with a tiger on the front, a fearsome beast covering MY FEARSOME BEAST) and silk robe to settle down to DOMINATE a protein-rich meal.
I shall not be partaking of alcohol, because my body is a temple and after that unfortunate incident where I ruined Christmas when I mistook my youngest nephew for a midget and launched him into grandmother’s chandelier I take things much easier now. Anyway, I’ve got to lay down some DOMINATION on boxing day, and you can’t be doing that when you’re heaving your guts out on the side of the pitch.
So, I was talking to Ginsters the other day, and he asked me what Santa was bringing me for Christmas. I’d completely forgotten this year, as he already gave me my fondest wish by allowing me to play in an England side that totally BEASTED the All Blacks (fucking WOOF!). Young Farrell pointed out that there’s no such person as Santa, but I wasn’t having any of that. Ginsters was completely crestfallen as he was banking on St. Nick bringing him a new whippet, or at least that’s what I think he said. I stopped him crying by pointing out that Santa is clearly real and DOMINATES the festive period with no little aplomb.
So, I retired to my chamber, broke out my favourite crayons and composed my Christmas letter:
I know you bring presents to boys that have only been nice, and I haven’t been at all naughty this year. In fact, I’ve traveled the world preaching the WAY OF THE GUN SHOW to ignorant sheep-shagging barbarians, angry little people and so forth.
As such, I know that you will deliver me what I want or I swear to God that I’m coming to fucking Lapland to nut your reindeer, chuck all your Elven minions into the Arctic Ocean and DOMINATE Mrs. Claws to such an extent that it would be deemed pornographic and illegal in most countries (even Holland).
Heh, only joking, just sharing some patented/ copyrighted/ trademarked WORLD CLASS BANTER with you. Thought you would appreciate it.
Anyway, moving swiftly on, this is what I would like for Christmas:
1) For my Iphone Ap to DOMINATE mobile devices to the same degree that my website DOMINATES the internet.
2) A new shotgun. While my own GUNS are mightily impressive (sculpted even), they are only fit for close quarters combat
3) For that jumped up little PE teacher to come to his senses and select me before Tom “who” Wood for England
4) For Warren Gatland to come to his senses and make sure that I’m on the plane to South Africa. That bunch of fucking savages don’t respect anything other than the results of a physical in-your-face DOMINATION, and the other back row options aren’t up to the job.
5) A new gym. I have simply outgrown my current one.
6) A new banana hammock. This one is starting to pong a bit.
8) For someone to come through with the offer for me, THE HASK, to star in my own workout video. If octogenarian slapper Jane Fonda can make a mint off these things then it’ll be a doddle for THE BIG BRAND to.
9) Some new crayons.
10) A puncture repair kit. My girlfriend has, er, sprung a leak as it were after an overly vigorous piece of bedroom DOMINATION. They don’t make blow up dolls like they used to.
11) Someone to explain to me how to use a puncture repair kit.
12) A life size T-Rex to prove that I am the mightiest beast to walk the earth and would even have DOMINATED the big prehistoric bastard.
I’m only asking for 12 things, Santa, as I don’t want to appear greedy, but you know that what THE HASK wants THE HASK fucking gets or there will be consequences. As outlined above.
I do appreciate that there is some logistical difficulty with delivering my presents due to the absence of a chimney in HASKLAND (I decided to name my mansion after that place in Memphis where some fat yank died on the crapper), so I will leave the third window on the right on the second floor open for you. Please ignore the leather, er, apparatus. It’s just an aide to my workout.
I put it in the post and went down for a bit of a pre-Chrimbo workout (I know people don’t use “Chrimbo” any more, but I’m DOMINATING the English fucking language, and am thus going to, as the kids say, “bring it back”). I bumped into Young Joe Lunchboxy (a fine lad, comes to me for guidance and advice all the time. I’ve made him what he is today, you know) in there and was smugly telling him about my present missive.
He was stunned “James, you thick cunt, the Lions are in Australia next year”….
What have I done….
Merry Christmas one and all.