There’s been a lot of talk lately about what a rat bastard my ex-husband, Tan Peluski, is. Well, I’m here to tell you that you don’t know the half of it.
Tan Peluski is the type of guy who wouldn’t think twice about fingering your grandma when nobody’s looking. He’s the kind of asshole that takes you to Sizzler for steaks and when the food comes he plucks one of his own pubes, drops it into the mashed potatoes and then refuses to pay. We all know that his jokes aren’t funny, that his breath smells like canned cat food and he’s such an outrageous alcoholic that he practically pisses 151. I say practically because I’ve tasted it, and it does not taste the same. It will, however, get you wicked fucked up.
You might ask yourself how a piece of work like Tan managed to get married once, let alone seventeen times. As wife number five, I can tell you that whiskey and vodka are two of the biggest contributing factors. Might have been the Vicodin too. Not to mention Tan has really amazing testicles.
Fantastic. Testicles.
And I don’t mean he’s brave or courageous. I mean he has some very attractive testicles. Perfectly sized, balanced and fuzzy; like two sweet little nectarines in a velvet pouch. The kind you want to rub your cheek up against.
But don’t get me wrong. His cock is worthless. About as worthless as porpoise on Quaaludes. Come to think of it, it looks a lot like a porpoise on Quaaludes. A blind, porpoise on Quaaludes ramming up against your inner thigh until it just sort of rolls over and gives up.
Yeah, but I didn’t come here to humiliate Tan. Well, not entirely. I also wanted to write about the other side of Tan, one that rarely gets talked about. I’m talking about the Tan Peluski who takes time out of his busy schedule of drinking and insulting strangers to dress up every Christmas like Santa Claus and visit trailer parks across Portland. You might have heard of the Trailer Park Santas? Yeah, he’s started that program. They’re a registered non-profit organization and to be honest with you when I heard that he started a charity my first thought was, tax scam. But I’ll be damned if that old crusty piece of dried up puke doesn’t actually go out and spend time with those lousy rugrats. I know because I’ve seen him do it.
Ok, he does smell like an old moldy shoe, but it’s not like those snot-nose little bastards know the difference. Most of them are strung out on Ramen noodles and second hand smoke anyway.
So my ex-husband, the impotent, alcoholic, foul-mouthed, racist, ugly piece of shit that he is, dons a festive rented Santa suit and invites little kids and attractive teenage girls to sit on his lap and experience the beautiful fucking magic of asking Santa Claus for a gift. And you know, it’s just pathetic and heartbreaking to hear the things they ask for. Sticks of gum. Shoe polish. Crack cocaine. It’s just sad.
Of course, that’s the thing that makes Tan special. Tan understands disappointment. He understands rock bottom, and the thing that I respect about him is he doesn’t lie to those kids. He doesn’t tell them that they’ll actually get their presents and he sure doesn’t tell them that they’re bad.
Except the ones that want crack and weapons, but the rest of them, they’re good kids.
So Tan tells the good ones that Santa can’t bring them presents because they’re little trailer houses don’t have chimneys. Isn’t that sweet?
