The Fist... or the Kneading Hand?
It's that time of year when the children of the Christianized world turn their attention to the bearded man who knows right from wrong, who travels the globe to entertain and inspire us with his powers. I'm talking, of course, about Chuck Norris. This party is called Chuck Norris vs. Christmas, and everybody here knows who's going to win. The Delta Force is showing on a television, and the man himself is giving out roundhouse kicks to terrorists, leaping through stained-glass windows, and riding an all-black rocket-firing motorcycle, his mullet flying behind him like a flag of good old-fashioned conservative values.
Our hostess is telling me that she's hidden her wig box—"I really like to play dress-up"—and that she hopes nobody in the party manages to find it, because last year turned into a messy orgy of costumes, glitter, and wiggery. There's a gorgeous spread of food and booze, a very full bar—besides the special, delicious nog, there are also drinks called Angel's Wings and Hotsie-Totsies. The walls feature Norrisisms plucked from the internet. A sample: "There is no natural selection—only the creatures that Chuck Norris allows to live."
The wig box will eventually be found, but by the time that happens, my Plus One and I will have headed down to South Lake Union, where a massage school's graduating class is celebrating. There's a lot of booze and some truly bad cake, but SunTzu Sound is just starting to make the music do his evil bidding, and there are dancers spinning around and doing human bridges, and, man, some of these masseuses sure are awfully... limber....
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