Tomorrow night is the Oh, Bernice! Holiday Special. We can’t wait to celebrate Dollar Store Secret Santa with you, so please stop by The Astoria Bookshop at 7pm with a wrapped gift from the dollar store. Here to WRAP UP our week of #worstxmasever is Jenna Telesca.
Once, when I was just eight, I was nestled in my bed until I heard such a clatter, I crept downstairs to see what was the matter. There was a strange, hulking, hairy man poking around my family’s tree–steal my presents?! Not on my watch. I had no choice–I snuck up behind him and bludgeoned him with my mother’s fruitcake until he stopped moving. Blood and candied fruit everywhere. Turns out that guy was actually Santa Claus. I had to leave the state shortly afterward, and changed my name to “Telesca.”
And that’s why we don’t celebrate xmas in my house.
There is one thing I was asked to bring up: these hilarious Bernician stories of their #worstxmasever? Not actually written by the Bernicians. (Except for Brian Matthew Kim, and mine, of course.) So, Jenna Telesca would like you to know that she did not write that post for #worstxmasever, that she has never killed a man with a fruitcake–she’s wanted to–and that she did not change her name to cover up a secret identity. She also wants you to know that she has never been a man named Fred Jenks, that she has never owned a 1982 Plymouth Reliant with peeling green paint, and that she has never cruised by your house in said Reliant while wearing a matching green velour tracksuit. Those were her Cheetos (yes) but she has never rubbed her fingers into her car’s upholstery for hours, as if she were massaging silver, until she realized she’s been driving the wrong way down the Jersey Turnpike for hours and she had no idea where she was. Where did she go? Right, said Fred, turning, except Jenna was never there to begin with. Don’t ask her about this again.
– John Rice