Why do you Liberal Dems hate Christmas, families, and Charlie Brown?
Yes, every year the crusade to put the Christ back in Christmas commences, and even though none of us actively signed up for duty or even give a fuck, apparently we’re on the front lines of the battle any way.
It’s a veritable Nutcracker Suite of self-branded, self-styled victimhood for the God Wads this year: The American Family Association and other nuisance groups have issued sundry fatwas against the Gap, Best Buy, and Bed, Bath, & Beyond for being corporately-operated witch covens; Glenn Beck‘s tear-jerking (or jerk-tearing) The Christmas Sweater simulcast has reportedly been tanking in regions where jaded urbanites reject Jesus by loving quality entertainment; and the House of Representatives heard the angels calling and felt compelled to vote on a resolution to federally validate Christmas in a nation full of secularists — wearing our slutty Santa costumes — bent on decrucifying our zombie Savior.
Next on the agenda: an amendment to ensure that child beauty queens bedecked in sequined leotards, hair extensions, and cowboy boots will be free to give sincere and patriotic renditions of “Santa Baby” at the Lil’ Miss Orange County Pageant this year?
The most insidious tactic of all? Clearly our evil Muslim President scheduling his presidential address on the meltdown in Afghanistan in order to preempt one of the hundred and fifty airings of A Charlie Brown Christmas, thus censoring its strong Christian overtones for people too cheap to buy the freakin’ DVD.
With the annual spate of Christmas specials clearly ground zero for the encroaching Liberal Menace this year — everybody knows those dykes Peppermint Patty and Marcie are really undercover ACORN operatives — your viewing choices this week can both erode the spirit of Christmas and make Bill O’Reilly‘s jowls quiver with disdain in the process.
So do your part by tuning into Nightcharm’s first annual Socially Progresssive, Secularly Humanistic, All-Inclusively Denominational, Satan-Approved, Don-Your-Gay-Apparel, Holiday-Neutral TV Spectacular:
A yuletide slasher movie filmed in the shadow of Mormon country, boasting a withering anti-Catholic abuse theme, and daring to defame a cherished Daddy Figure icon of the Right? It’s A Miserable Life!
Released in the winter of 1984 to a flurry of outraged media watchdog furor based on its axe-wielding Father Christmas marketing ploy — Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert read the film’s credits aloud on air in order to publicly shame the participants — this film has the temerity to cynically posit that a child’s regular mistreatment at the hands of crazy-for-God whack bags running what amounts to an institutionalized masturbation aversion camp just might not be the healthiest of situations.
By the time our troubled protagonist Billy turns eighteen — now essayed by defilable Robert Brian Wilson, who gets double points for playing Santa Barbara‘s murdered scion of the disaster-prone Capwell clan, my wealthy and fucked-up childhood dream family — he’s on the edge of snapping, a tightly-wound and towheaded muscle virgin with deep-seated Catholic guilt, and missing his calling as a Chippendale or an Xmas strippergram (dig the slow introductory camera pan all the way up from his groin to square-jawed visage) because he’s too busy stalking in a winter wonderland. 
If you’re up for a double penetration feature, then get your hands on the eye-widening L.A.-lensed skidrow quasi sequel/remake featuring Billy’s even more psychotically pumped-up little bro’ and his manic eyebrows, and thrill to the sights of death by car antenna, death by car battery, death by umbrella, and the greatest motherfucking broad daylight suburban shooting spree ever committed to celluloid. Only Jeff Stryker‘s Santa’s Cummin’ will make you long even harder to be put across Saint Nick’s lap and punished.
He-Man & She-Ra: A Christmas Special
During the early ’80s, FCC deregulations of children’s programming had all the Ned Flanders…erses (?) of the world commencing sanctimonious letter-writing campaigns about violence, commercialism, Liberal bias, and occult influence in kiddie TV. Drawing particular rancor was Masters of The Universe, which the moral majority despised because it featured beautiful people brandishing weapons, sporting hyphenated names, and not wearing pants. The shows’ producers — conscious off all the hubbub — promptly became hyper-conscious of conveying positive social messages, which in turn, led the Right Wing to bitch even more because kids were now learning about bleeding heart issues like environmentalism, anti-war sentiment, adoption, and all life having equal value. Kooky Libs!
Journey to Eternia where a celebration co-sponsored by delegates from its sister world Etheria is taking place to commemorate the birth of its twin monarchs Adam and Adora, the cover identities for the fraternal pair of messiahs with great hair called He-Man and She-Ra. Having an entirely progressive and godless culture where magic and science co-exist, Eternians know nothing of Christmas until two Earth children befriend stranded illegal alien wizard Orko and are themselves marooned off-world. Soon, evil buzzkill queens Skeletor and Hordak — the Brian Brown and Maggie Gallagher of intergalactic anti-Yuletide equality — are bent on foiling a holiday cultural exchange because the definition of an Earthling-only Christfest must be maintained or the kids will get confused and Santa will bleed from the ass. Will bonebag Skeletor’s heart of ice melt from the moppets’ boundary-defying holiday spirit? Will our heroes with the aid of an army of of gay pygmy robots fend off the invading enemy tide? Will Fisto and Snout Spout finally reveal their true feelings at the boozed-up Christmas party? Find out! You have the power!
As MGM’s lavish adaptation of the first of L. Frank Baum‘s books (there were actually fifteen of them devoted to chronicling the adventures of dozens of characters) came to be something of an Easter mainstay, so should this mind-warping take on the second book become a Christmas staple. Part of the boomlet of oft-traumatizing projects usually imported from Denmark, Russia, and Mexico and dumped redubbed into weekend kiddie matinees, this trip was actually lensed in Florida by Barry Mahon — helmer of ’60s kiddie kitsch and adults-only nudie flicks. So many thrills — you’ll be Ozzifed!, promises the tagline. If by that you mean freebasing Benedryl and getting gangbanged by day laborers, then fuck yeah! Ozzify the hell out of me!
Nasty hag Mombi gets so sick of being the guardian to chore-shirking tard Tip (essayed by the director’s marble-mouthed son, clad in a Little Lord Fauntleroy fancy-boy suit) and his dismaying early onset puberty that she wants him smoked, so the Boy From Oz hightails it down the long road to the Emerald City with nothing but his co-dependant veggie golem Jack Pumpkinhead, a hobo brindle, and a dream in tow.
Dorothy-deficient, Wizard-free, and even Wicked Witch-lite, Oz now exists in a power vacuum with everyone vying for the throne. Who will rule the four color-swatched lands? Benevolent steward the Scarecrow? Rictus-grinned Glinda the Good Fairy? Sneering cunt demagogue Jingur and her all-girl coterie of storm troopers? Maybe even the enigmatic lost princess Ozma, if someone can find her royal ass?
This stumble down the yellow brick road has it all: child abuse, witches, bitches, a purple cow, tone-deaf musical interludes (Tip’s croakily-warbled “I Don’t Want To Be A Statue” has been affectionately covered by indie prog rockers Daiquiri and Zip Code Rapists), concussed line readings, black magic, single fatherhood, female insurrection, opium den-pacing, and an Expressionist Emerald City conceptually falling somewhere between The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Lidsville — all topped off with a magical sex change in the last reel! At your compulsory holiday dinner wherein Dad’s a total dipwad, your sister’s still a whore, and Birther Uncle Jack won’t shut the hell up about the long form birth certificate already, just repeat until you’ve dissociated: there’s no place like Oz. There’s no place like Oz…
© 2009 – 2010, Shawn Baker. All rights reserved. Nightcharm.com
I have no idea what I just read but I found it quite interesting. You write so eloquently, but I think I will have to read it again, and again.
I think I feel like K.O. This was incredible to read, both interesting and entertaining, but I seem unable to put my finger on the actual subject.
I love this blog more than the porn.
This was obviously written by a sodomite and a satanist. The author is a sodo-satanist.
I said it.
i would love to have sex with a guy naked ,both of us because it looks so fun.
Hi Marge, thanks for sending me the link. I am absolutely shocked by the content of this article. This ‘Shawn Baker’ character must be possessed, he is a heretic, and being a heretic has consequences, John 15:6.
P.S. If you don’t start letting your husband sodomize you, then he will keep coming to me for it and you know I can’t say no to a good ass-stretching.
Love Mary