Drinking Nog out of an Alcoholic's Mouth

Christmas, Treehouse style. It involves touching turkeys innappropriately with oils, red bras hanging cermoniously from the ceiling fan, shockingly blase drug use, and some super-charged nog. You thought YOU partied hard? Just fucking wait.

Apparently the Pennsylvania Dutch are a bunch of low-life, alcohol-guzzling whack jobs, and their existence ultimately led to the end of my Christmas celebration because we were all nearly passed out on the floor after drinking their precious egg nog.

My hairdresser and confidante, The Fabulous Lady P, passed along a large bottle of pre-spiked egg nog from our favorite wooden-clog wearing motherfuckers over in Pennsylvania. There was not only bourbon in this nog, but whiskey as well, to separate the Elves from the Santas, if you catch my meaning.

The Mighty G poured the nog delicately into my fine china teacups. When everyone had an equal portion, I sprinkled some cinnamon in it at the request of Pablo Honey. We brought it to all of our friends, and the rambunctiousness of the night rocketed into the air faster than a homophobe that accidentally sits on a skywardly-pointing candy cane.

As more and more egg nog slid down my throat, the charming and elegant Christmas jazz morphed into "Anna Godda Davida." The fiber-optic Christmas tree was twisting its branches towards me, beckoning me to join him in a Bacchanalian embrace. My boyfriend and The Mighty G were having a punching contest, there were people making out on my bed, someone had taken their top off, and if you listened very carefully, you could hear another soul carefully reciting the Gettysburg address.

It was wild.

The party ended in that moment. We caught a glimpse of Pleasure Island that night, and we were not ready to turn into donkeys. But at least when we sobered up we could recall a lovely night spent with good friends and yummy food.

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