One of the buildings near my work is doing a toy drive for underprivileged kids this Christmas season. Actually, they have done it the last few years, and each and every year it just creeps the shit out of me. A toy drive? Creepy? Well, yes. I have no problem with the concept of giving toys and gifts to underprivileged children (although I am sure that there are always a few cases of fourteen year-olds getting Duplo sets because the numbers “just didn’t work out this year. Sorry. Also, your Dad’s not getting out of prison this year”). It’s a wonderful gesture, and I have participated myself quite a few times. I sure hope those kids liked my homemade shurikens. My problem is the name of the toy drive: the “Snowball Express”. Sure, it may sound innocuous. It’s probably just named after this shitty movie:

No problems there, right? It’s just that every time I see the signs for the “Snowball Express” I think of this:

Nothing says Christmas like a mouthful of ejaculate, kids. And by God, we’ll do it quickly — “Express”, if you will. Now open wide and think of Santa and egg nog.

I think I’m going to donate to the CHUM Christmas Wish instead. I’m pretty sure the “Snowball Express” toy depot is nothing but a bunch of bearded guys in thick glasses and trench coats trying to convince twelve year-olds to come back to their place, “play some Nintendo, chill, and you know, see what happens.”