Christopher Walken's Twelve Days of Christmas

The First Day
The partridge, the pear tree. I trust both have arrived safely on this First Day of Christmas. The partridge, unfortunately, required mounting for shipping. Taxidermy. I had to strangle the poor bird with my own two hands. Sometimes small cruelties must be tolerated for the greater holiday good—in this case, pears.

The Second Day
May the two beautiful turtle doves, enclosed, enliven your Second Day of Christmas. I have recorded their mournful songs on a compact disc, also enclosed, so you will understand why I found it necessary to smother them. These birds—these birds could drive you fucking crazy.

The Third Day
The three French hens have been prepared and dressed for oven or broiler, as you will. But the holiday fun does not stop there, my friend. I have removed the heads myself. With an axe. And I have decorated them, festively, as Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus. Please, enjoy.

The Fourth Day
Fourth Day. Four calling birds. Listen. Are they calling? No. But the silence is, in its own way, a kind of Christmas.

The Fifth Day
I have taken special care to select the five golden rings, enclosed, because I know you treasure the better things in life. Four are from the world's finest jewelers. The fifth was my grandfather's. It is of special sentimental value to me, because I had to exhume his corpse to retrieve it. An unfortunate bureaucratic slipup, by an unfortunate fucking bureaucrat.

The Sixth Day
On this Sixth Day of Christmas, six geese sit a-laying on your front lawn. Eggs. I have always admired these elegant, graceful white waterfowl. It saddens me that the hatchlings will not emerge before I send workmen to burn the nests.

The Seventh Day
On the Seventh Day, God rested. But the seven swans presently a-swimming in your pool do not rest. They will not climb out of the water, nor will they stop moving. Why? Because the lead weights I have tied to their legs, the amphetamines in their feed, assure you of a full day of Christmas entertainment.

The Eighth Day
The small American dairy farm has, tragically, disappeared forever. Therefore, most of the eight maids a-milking appear courtesy of the good people at La Leche League, to whom I have made a generous donation in your name. For the remainder, I have called in a personal favor from the publisher of Lactating Mamas magazine. Distasteful. But it is, after all, Christmas.

The Ninth Day
Nine. Ladies, Dancing. Nine sterling examples, one might think, of the female form in motion. But who is that tall, strikingly handsome woman in green? It is I, Christopher Walken. In Peter Pan drag.

The Tenth Day
On this, the Tenth Day of our Christmas adventure, the ten lords a-leaping represent every walk of American street life. The gambler, the bookmaker, the dealer and the junkie. The ambitious gangster, the implacable crime lord, and the common thug. The crooked cop, the arsonist, and the con man. Their nimble hops, always one step ahead of Johnny Law, are what the season is all about. Merry Christmas.

The Eleventh Day
Eleventh Day. Eleven pipers. Piping. Not a-piping, mind you. But piping hot. Like soul-searing New Orleans jazz. Like a boiling glass of absinthe. Like me. Happy Holidays.

The Twelfth Day
On this Twelfth Day, I am filled with ennui. Twelve drummers, merely drumming; too easy, perhaps. Which is why I have, at great personal risk, imported drums made from human skin. They produce a sound like no other; the sound of a tiny bamboo cage in a fetid jungle prison, where hope dies anew with each cruel dawn. It's the sound of pain, frustration and disappointment. The sound of Christmas.