Verne Troyer put down his glass of egg nog and looked out the window at the falling snow. The fuzzy strains of Bing Crosby Christmas played softly in the background, as Verne Troyer’s own sex tape flickered in mute on the massive 12″ plasma screen TV he had mounted above his mini-bar.
“Yeah,” Verne Troyer said, almost wistfully. “Put it in her mouth.”
Earlier that day he’d bought a rotisserie chicken, a carton of cigarettes, and a 12-pack of Michelob Ultra. Just like mom used to make. That’s what Verne said at the cash register as the woman with the American flag nails was ringing him up. “Looks like someone’s having a party,” she had said, and Verne looked at her and said, “Just like mom used to make,” and she smiled and laughed but Verne didn’t. “That is what my mom used to make for Christmas Eve dinner,” Verne Troyer said. The woman stopped laughing and handed him his plastic bag.
As a child, Verne could spend hours happily staring at the blinking lights on a Christmas tree, mesmerized by the colors and the patterns. Now, as an adult, he sat on his leather sofa, his mind cheerily blank, and gazed into the lights, occasionally looking over at the TV to watch himself fucking Ranae Shrider. Lights, fucking, lights, fucking, he could do this for hours. Verne Troyer did that for hours.
In the mail the day before he’d received a holiday card from Mike Myers. It read:
My dearest Verne,
I hope this card brings you a “little” holiday cheer.
The Man Who Made Millions Off Of You
P.S. Do you get it? “Little”? It’s a joke about your height! Party on, Verne! Schwing!
He put the card on the kitchen table, and made a mental note to have the cleaning lady put it on the mantle the next time she came.
At midnight, Verne sat in front of his computer as he did every night, googling himself while enjoying a glass of champagne and a modestly-priced cigar. In the morning, he would sit beneath the tree and open his present to himself: a $50,000 diamond-encrusted “Too Short” medallion on a platinum chain, commemorating his favorite rapper. But for now, he just scanned the internet for anyone to get mad at. He’d given up railing against God long ago, but even the success of Hollywood had not been enough to ease his inner turmoil. He had an outsized ego for a man of any size, and it bruised easily. There, in the draft folder of his AOL email account, he looked at the countless drunken rants he’d thought better of sending during the past year. In the background, he could hear his sex tape, which was set on a loop, begin again. He found that comforting. And then, in a tipsy moment, either from the champagne or the nostalgic rotisserie chicken dinner, or just the soothing sounds of his sex tape in the other room, Verne was flooded with holiday spirit, and in an act of charity surprising even to himself, he clicked ‘select all’ and deleted the unsent angry emails.
Tomorrow he could lash out at anonymous bloggers all over again, but tonight it was Christmas. Tonight Verne Troyer wanted to be the bigger man.