3 thoughts on “Christmas in the Brothel — Edvard Munch

  1. Sounds like a good place to be on Christmas Eve. At least you don’t have to watch your spoiled kids rip open their mountain of presents in record time and then have them look at you and ask you if that’s all there is. I want a professional handjob so bad I can taste it. And I was a good boy this year. I quit drinking (I’ve been sober for almost 1 year exactly). I got a new job that doubled my salary and provided health insurance for my whole family. The last time time I yelled at my wife and kids for doing something minor was last Thanksgiving, when my oldest son locked my bedroom door from the inside, then stepped out and shut the door, which cost me $200 in locksmith fees. I have really tried my hardest this year to be a good man and what do I get for Christmas? Nothing. That’s right. Absolutely nothing. So while looking at Munch’s painting may induce pangs of existential dread in some viewers, for me it does nothing but create a sense of unquenchable longing. The Brothel. Yes, that’s where I’d rather be tonight and tomorrow. But instead I’m at work (Welcome to Corporate America, said my Boss). And tonight I’ll be in the car, on the freeway. Tomorrow I’ll be in the car, on the freeway. Because my kids have to see their grandparents, right? Is that the idea? I’m told that it is. The idea is to be with family. But I don’t want to be with my family. I want to be with a prostitute. I want to sip watered-down Swiss Miss hot chocolate from a plastic mug and watch as a 25 year old in red high heels and matching Christmad lingerie counts my crinkled stack of twentys. I want to look in her dead eyes as she’s looking off into the distance. I want to have an orgasm that is given to me by someone other than myself. Maybe I’ll save up. There’s always next year.

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