Not the kind that smells like burning hair and regret, but one that actually puts out heat before June.

Specifically, that it stops humming like a jet engine and starts actually keeping the generic-brand beer cold.

This post captures the gritty, bourbon-soaked spirit of a trailer park Christmas, where the lights are tangled, the heater is broken, and the holiday cheer is served in a dented tin cup. Dear Santa Claus: Go Fuck Yourself Dear Santa,