I, myself, had my own doubts about the coming holiday. Although there were already dozens of presents beneath the tree, I had not noticed a single one in the shape of the gift I most wanted: Tony Orlando and Dawn's Tie a Yellow 'Round the Old Oak Tree. If I did not get this album, I had no reason to live. And yet there were nothing flat and square under the tree. There were plenty of puffy things - sweaters, shirts with built-in vests, and the bell-bottom polyester slacks I loved, maybe even a pair of platform shoes - but without that record, there might as well be no Christmas.

Augusten Burroughs, Running with Scissors (277)

Without missing a beat, the taller man handed Dickie a beer (apparently it was not too early to drink), and began challenging his opponent to distinguish between the genuine ascetic and what he termed the conspiciously nonconsuming "poverty snob." Foley (for that's who he was) obliged, though he became evasive when Stubblefield (obviously) interrupted to ask on which side of the fence Christ would fall. Was Jesus an enlightened being who understood maya (the illusory nature of the material world) and the folly of seeking happiness through wealth, or was he merely a humorless, undersexed, masochistic proto-communist with an olive branch up his butt?

Tom Robbins, Villa Incognito (107)

So I picked up my pace and hiked as far ahead of the group as I could. I may have been one of the youngest in our group, but I wasn't the fastest. That title went to the movie mogul, my fiftyish roommate, who led the pack almost every day. I couldn't catch up with the movie mogul or pass him, but I could pace myself so that I was always between MM and the rest of the group. When I was fairly certain that I was alone and that I couldn't be seen by anyone ahead of me or behind me, I put my right hand down my shorts, cupped my enormous, salty scrotum in one hand, and lifted it up and away from my burning thighs. I hiked like that for most of the rest of the week: alone, balls in one hand, water bottle in the other. I didn't have to worry about looking like part of a cult or a work-release program anymore; I just looked like a pervert. It didn't help me get any closer to the rich folks, but it kept me from howling in pain with every step.

Dan Savage, Skipping Towards Gomorrah (200-01)