6.20.2004
The Heat is On
Reprinted from Chickenlegs.net - 12/05/02
The holiday season brings grim nightmares. Nightmares about characters from holiday specials. Nightmares about Heat Miser.
I lie down to sleep and pull the electric blanket over me, afraid to close my eyes. Inevitably, sleep comes and with it, the dreams.
He is in front of me, his flaming red hair at my crotch level. He is singing his little song:
I'm Mister Green Christmas...
I'm Mister Sun...
That's when I feel the burning at my crotch. It isn't him, he is a few feet in front of me grimacing and doing a little stop action dance. I don't know what is causing it, but I don't want to remove my pants. I am afraid of what Heat Miser might do.
The burning gets too great and, finally, I tank off my pink stretch pants. I look at my crotch and scream in horror at what I see.
All of those little "mini-Heat Miser" guys are crawling through my pubic hair, singing and dancing:
He's Mister 101...
I wake up screaming and turn down the electric blanket, his whiny voice echoing in my ears.
I am not sure why I have these dreams. Maybe a bad case of jock itch around the holiday season as a youth, or maybe it was that red-haired Bangkok whore who gave me crabs. I don't suppose it really matters. What matters is the fear.
It is Christmas. He's coming. I can almost feel it.
The holiday season brings grim nightmares. Nightmares about characters from holiday specials. Nightmares about Heat Miser.
I lie down to sleep and pull the electric blanket over me, afraid to close my eyes. Inevitably, sleep comes and with it, the dreams.
He is in front of me, his flaming red hair at my crotch level. He is singing his little song:
I'm Mister Green Christmas...
I'm Mister Sun...
That's when I feel the burning at my crotch. It isn't him, he is a few feet in front of me grimacing and doing a little stop action dance. I don't know what is causing it, but I don't want to remove my pants. I am afraid of what Heat Miser might do.
The burning gets too great and, finally, I tank off my pink stretch pants. I look at my crotch and scream in horror at what I see.
All of those little "mini-Heat Miser" guys are crawling through my pubic hair, singing and dancing:
He's Mister 101...
I wake up screaming and turn down the electric blanket, his whiny voice echoing in my ears.
I am not sure why I have these dreams. Maybe a bad case of jock itch around the holiday season as a youth, or maybe it was that red-haired Bangkok whore who gave me crabs. I don't suppose it really matters. What matters is the fear.
It is Christmas. He's coming. I can almost feel it.
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