Friday, April 20, 2012
"The Holiday Spirit"
Well, I was dead. Again.
Funny how these things can happen. Actually, it isn't really that funny, considering that I'm now dead, but I'm going to tell you what happened, and that phrase seemed as good a cliché to start off with as any.
I was going on a Christmas trip to Aspen with my friends: Stan, Kyle, and Cartman. My friends had been to Aspen before, and had learned how to ski. I already knew how to ski, and was actually pretty good at it. When had I learned, did you ask? Well, let's just say that what they say about the ninth circle of Hell being cold is true. And I've had many opportunities to practice.
We had just arrived in Aspen. While the Marshes drove us to the hotel, Kyle had suggested that we should have a ski race on the slopes the next day (this all happened yesterday, by the way). This would be a high-stakes race; the loser would have to buy the winner gingerbread cookies and hot chocolate afterwards.
Cartman started bragging and boasting about how he was totally going to kick our asses in this race, and how he was so good at skiing, and so on. Since I was pretty confident myself, I made some comment about relying on gravity (get it? Because he's fat?) not being the same as having real skills. Stan and Kyle laughed, but Cartman got all offended for some reason.
Anyway, we got to the hotel, and I went to sleep and didn't think that much of it.
So this morning, I woke up, and saw that it was almost 9 o'clock. Damn it! We were planning to be at the slopes by 8:00, to beat the crowd. I could have sworn that I set my alarm clock, but—
No, I had set my alarm clock. I was sharing a room with Cartman; he must have shut off the alarm. I guess he really did consider me a threat in the race.
Fortunately, Stan and Kyle would want to wait for me, so they probably hadn't started yet. I just had to get up, get dressed, and get over there quickly. I should probably check myself in the mirror first; Cartman had probably drawn a mustache or a penis on my face.
As I got out of bed, I stepped on a roller skate. There was no reason for any of us to bring roller skates to a ski resort, so I presumed that Cartman left it there. Probably so I would trip and sprain my ankle or something. Typical Cartman tactics.
What Cartman hadn't counted on was a little something I call "Kenny Luck." There's bad luck. Then there's the kind of bad luck that makes you want to stay indoors 24 hours a day. Then there's Kenny Luck.
Instead of spraining my ankle, I slipped on the skate, and stumbled forward towards the widow. Which just so happened to be open. And our room just so happened to be on the fifth floor. And right above the flagpole. Which just so happened to have a sharp point on the top.
Kenny Luck sure is a bitch.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out how that ended up. But in case you didn't, go check the first sentence again: I died.
Oh well; these things happen. I had a few hours to kill before I came back to life, so I decided to wander around as a ghost for a while.
When you…um, appreciate women the way I do, being able to go around without people seeing you can be a lot better than it sounds. Unfortunately, a ski resort is not the ideal place to do this, since everyone is wearing thick coats. If you ever get the opportunity to try this yourself, a beach (especially a nude beach) is a much better local.
Come on, girls…would you streak in the snow for poor Kenny? In the spirit of Christmas? Why do you think Santa Claus says "Ho Ho Ho?"
One of the girls was actually someone I recognized: Bebe Stevens, another 4th grader at South Park Elementary. She was one of the prettiest girls in our class (mostly because she was the first girl in our class to develop boobs). She drifted between boyfriends, but had always turned me down because I was the "poor kid." Stuck up bitch.
Hehehe, I'd always wanted to do this. And since I always keep mistletoe behind my ear during this year (even as a ghost), I think it's actually allowed. Sort of. As Bebe walked through the crowd of tourists (to make contact less conspicuous), I floated up behind her, and gave her firm butt a nice pat (it made sense to skip the kissing part, in this particular case).
"Watch it, pervert!" she snapped at one of the older tourists, who looked thoroughly confused.
"Pervert" is a word that sets me off. Even though I suppose it's accurate, I don't like being called one; it's kind of like how Cartman feels about the word "fatass." This time, I reached my arms around her waist, and grasped both her boobs, giving them a long, tight squeeze.
She looked around and walked away, clearly surprised, but (I suspect) not entirely upset.
I had overindulged a bit, I admit; I would have to be more careful. Still, I managed to get a little more groping done; many a young woman (most of them older and curvier than Bebe) felt a mysterious titty grab or an ass pinch that morning. I know it's demeaning, but give me a break; when you have Kenny Luck, and die all the time, you're entitled to death's little perks.
And of course, it's the season for giving, isn't it? They're giving me boobs, and I'm giving them squeezes. Everybody's happy.
I noticed what looked like a sweet party going on in the lodge. Surely, there were some girls there. Maybe there would be a hot tub as well. I was about to go crash the party, but then I saw my friends at the top of the slope. I decided to catch up with them; drunk chicks could wait until later.
"I'm sure Kenny will get here any minute," Stan said, still determined to give everyone a fair chance.
"Kyle, Kenny was sleeping like a baby," Cartman said. "I didn't have the heart to wake him up. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to make him buy my prize."
"Yeah, that's because you eat so much, fatass," Kyle snickered.
"Ey! No, it's because Kenny's poor as shit," Cartman snapped. "You know, I don't have to explain myself to you two. Screw you guys…I've got a race to win."
"Okay, you're on!" Kyle said. The three of them lined up at their makeshift starting point. "Ready? One…two…"
At that instant, I noticed that both Stan and Kyle had had their shoes tied together. Man, Cartman really wanted to win this race. I rushed down and tried to undo the knots.
"THREE!" Cartman yelled, before Stan and Kyle (or me) were ready. Kyle tripped over me, and got a face full of snow. Stan, whose shoes I had already untied, lost his balance, and fell out of his skis (since, of course, they were untied). They would both probably lose the race, but at least they wouldn't have a worse accident further down the slope.
Cartman was already well on his way. "So long, vaginafaces!" he called out. "Can I order some pie with those cookies?" He laughed, and then disappeared into the distance.
Kyle could only stare, dumbfounded, as Cartman skied away. "Dude. Do you know how many sweets that son of a bitch is going to want?"
Stan nodded. "That is going to suck so much ass."
I scowled. This had gone too far. Sure, that fatass had killed me, but it was an accident, and that could have happened anyway. Stan and Kyle could have been seriously hurt.
Cartman's not going to win. Not if I can help it.
I flew down the mountain at top speed. I called out, "Cartman!"
Somehow, the fatass heard me over the roaring wind. He must not have recognized my voice, though. "Huh? Who is that?"
On sudden inspiration, I chuckled and said, "I am the Holiday Spirit!" in an eerie voice.
"What? No, you're not!" Cartman scoffed. He looked around, but of course, he didn't see anyone.
"Yes, I am," I said spookily. I scooped a handful of snow off the mountainside, and threw it at him. He managed to keep his balance.
"Where are you?" he shouted, clearly getting spooked out.
"Right here," I laughed. "I told you I'm the Holiday Spirit; I'm invisible." I kept pelting him with snowballs. "And since it's almost Christmas, I have come." Somehow, the snowballs weren't knocking him over. I guess he was better at skiing than I had originally thought. Maybe he deserved to win, after all.
"I've never heard of the 'Holiday Spirit,'" Cartman said.
"Oh yeah," I said, "I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past, Present, and Future all rolled into one."
"That is bullcrap!" Cartman sneered. "Now I know you're pulling my leg."
"I'll prove it to you," I said. "As the Ghost of Christmas Past, I can tell you all the bad things you've done on previous Christmases. You made fun of your friend Kyle's Jewish religion, and called his mom a bitch. You refused to help your friends and Mr. Hankey make a movie to save Christmas. You cared more about getting presents than saving Kyle's little brother. You wrote a Christmas story that gave your friend Stan nightmares. Shall I go on?"
Cartman was speechless. "You've made your point," he finally grumbled.
This was fun. "As the Ghost of Christmas Present, I can tell you what's happening this Christmas season. Hmm, let's see…you tried to cheat your way into winning this race. You're still a naughty kid; Santa won't be giving you anything but coal this year."
"Goddamn it! It's not true! I was framed!" Cartman yelled. I thought the shock of that statement alone might make him fall. Still, he managed to stay on his feet, as we got closer and closer to the bottom of the mountain. He managed to calm down. "Besides, even if I did do those things," he said, "anyone could have found out. If you really are the 'Holiday Spirit,' you should also know the future, right?"
I hadn't found any way to stop him, other than just giving him a shove. But I didn't want to do that; he was going so fast that if he fell down, he would probably really hurt himself, and he was still my friend (somehow). I looked in front of us, and got a new plan.
"You want the future? Very well: I shall look into what is yet to come." I was silent for a moment, then I went on, "You are about to turn over a new leaf. You will gain a newfound respect for other people's beliefs, and you'll be much more generous. In fact, you'll be an absolute angel."
"Well, having respect and being generous sounds lame. But being an angel? Kick ass!" Then he frowned. "But only if I actually get to fly and have wings, and all that."
"You sure will."
"So, when will this happen?" he asked.
I smiled. "Right now."
At that moment, Cartman went off a particularly high jump. As he soared through the air, I grabbed him under the armpits and hoisted him up, carrying him through the sky.
When he didn't start to fall, Cartman began to panic and thrash around. "Hey! I don't like this! Put me down!" Damn, he was heavy.
I carried him high over the finish line (you don't touch the ground, you don't win, buddy) and into the square, towards the large Christmas tree in the center of the street.
Just a little bit further…and…
There! I dropped Cartman onto the top of the tree. The star caught him by his underwear, and left him with the wedgie of his life, dangling high above the crowd, who all began to laugh.
"And presto. An angel for the tree," I announced.
"Ey! Get me down from here!" Cartman squealed. "This is embarrassing!"
That was when Stan and Kyle arrived, having just made it down themselves. They took one look at Cartman, and started laughing their asses off.
"Dude," Stan said, choking with mirth, "that is one fat angel."
"Yep," said Kyle, fighting back tears, "he makes Santa Claus look like a candy cane."
Cartman started wiggling about, and his ranting became complete gibberish. He was babbling like a madman. Finally, his tantrum became so fierce that it threatened to topple the tree over, and he stopped.
"Please get me down," he asked.
"Are you going to be a nice boy from now on, so Santa won't put you on his naughty list?"
He whimpered at the thought. Yeah, I guess that's a little too much to ask.
"In that case, I've got a real easy way you can make up for it." I whispered it to him, and he vomited in disgust. But at that point, he was willing to agree to anything.
"I'm not doing this, you guys!"
"You promised," I reminded him. By this point, I had come back to life, and I was enjoying my hot chocolate and cookies with Stan and Kyle.
"Screw you guys!" Cartman shouted from the other room.
Kyle laughed. "You know, Cartman, you do make a pretty good angel."
"Alright, fine!" Cartman walked into the room, wearing the yarmulke Kyle had given him, and started doing a jig.
"You have to sing, too," Stan said. Cartman began some disgruntled muttering. "Louder!" we said.
Cartman grumbled, but reluctantly obliged:
"Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel,
I made you out of clay.
Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel,
With dreidel I will play!"
Now that is a holiday memory I will always cherish.