I can smell it coming. Jingle fucking bells! It’s that time of year again. The time of year when I morph into Scrooge McDuck and curse this holiday from hell. It’s forced merriment! Forced jolly. Forced glad tidings. I’ve had enough. I’m calling on free people everywhere to stand up to this damn holiday. Help me fight back against the yule tide. We must fight against the holiday that will never, ever die.
You can’t kill Christmas. Christmas is like a Mummy that just keeps coming. You can easily elude it, but it’s back, every year, and it will never stop. Ever! Until you’re fucking merry.
Granted, last year’s jihad didn’t get very far. So let me reiterate, it’s not the celebration of Jesus’s birthday for which I have a problem. I enjoy the Christmas spirit. But this surreal cultural celebration has morphed into a lawn decorating nightmare filled with 1950’s cartoon characters that have NOTHING TO DO WITH CHRISTMAS. Thus, forcing me to explain each one as we drive around looking at Christmas lights. When my son was 7 it went kind of went like this:
My Son: Who’s that?
Me: That’s Yogi Bear.
Who’s Yogi Bear?
Uh, he was just this cartoon bear that stole picnic baskets from campers at Yosemite National Park.
That’s uh, that’s Betty Boop.
Who’s Betty Boop?
Son, I couldn’t even tell you.
Boop, that’s a funny name. What did Boop do for Christmas?
I’m not sure. . .
What’s wrong with her head?
It’s a big Christmas head. Sometimes that happens to baseball players.
That’s a storm trooper from Star Wars.
What’s a storm trooper?
Don’t worry about it. He’s from the movie, Star Wars.
Uh, that’s Heckle and Jeckle.
What are they?
Magpies? You’re just making up that word. What is a magpie?
It’s a kind of bird.
Ugly black birds.
Yeah. Check out the Santa on the roof.
He’s on every roof. What’s so Christmas-ee about magpies?
That’s Wonder Woman and Aqua Man.
Are they friends of Santa?
Not really. They’re super heros that fight crime.
What? Like someone that steals Christmas presents?
Sure. Why not?
What does Wonder Woman do?
She can knock bullets out of the way with her bracelets.
I know, it sounds kind of stupid. But did I ever tell you the time Superman and Batman fought against Santa Clause for domination of the galaxy? It all started when Chris Cringle started a feud with the Village People.
No, the Village People was a homosexual disco group from the 70’s. They’re right over there on the roof across the street.
That’s a life size cut out of Dolemite. Before you ask, I don’t know.
Also on my list of grievances – Christmas music is forcing me to buy an IPOD. I can’t go shopping and listen to the same litany of crappy Christmas music. The little drummer boy and jingle bells have become like fingernails on a blackboard. My only defense is to plug an IPOD into my head. And, I don’t want to be like my son. Every conversation starts with “HEY!” followed by annoyed derision as he pulls off headphones, that have, no doubt, grown into his head. My son the Borg. Resistence is futile. “WHAT?!?” is always the response, followed by “Jeeeezzzze, you don’t have to yell.” I answer, “Shaaaa.” I’m not sure what that “shaaa,” means but it seems to end most inane teenage blather.
This year I’ll be conducting my Jihad on Christmas in my one-of-a-kind Christmas-proof War Bunker, (my home office.) (My bathroom is known as the “Situation Room.”)
Woe is the caroler that wanders into the domain of my Christmas-proof war bunker. They shall receive gladdest tidings of redemption and lamentations harrowing the new word of God’s glory. Oh, wait. That’s not what will happen.
Santa, who does he work for?
I’ve been picking on the Santa Clause scab since I was born. Who appointed this fat cracker to decide who’s naughty and who’s nice?!? He sounds like the Fidel Castro of the north. And what happens is five years when the north pole melts? Do we really want his kind in the Americas? I vote we push him into Siberian territory. There’s no reason he can’t be productive with his midget slave labor camp in Russia. Honestly, who buys wooden toys anymore?
If Jesus was alive today, do you think he’d want to see another cross? – (Bill Hicks)
I’m not really against Christmas, but for God’s sake we must consider the rigidity of the rules regarding celebrating the holidays. Maybe we should try Festivas. I especially like the “airing of grievances.”
Traditional Christmas television specials demand our attention. Last year I went on a rant against certain Christmas television shows, but there are a few I like:
Lets not forget, Rudolph the Omen
Explain to me how the Pee-Wee Christmas Special doesn’t involve LSD?
I’m looking forward to the Aunt Barbara Christmas Special. He/She had me at Shields and Yarnell.
The Night the Reindeer Died. Starring Lee Majors, in color.
I should point out that I love the movie Bad Santa. Next year I plan to set up a Bad Santa franchise here in Austin. I will play the drunk bad Santa as cars full of kids drive up. I’ll ask them what they want for Christmas and then feign sickness, vomitting icicles into a bucket before they can speak. My assistant, an over-medicated daytime whore with too much makeup and under-dressed as an elf, will ask if anyone wants a $5 picture while holding a cigarette with a long line of ashes just about to fall, but never does.
The ground around my Christmas throne will be littered with beer cans. Jingle Bells and other Christmas favorites will be blaring on the loudspeaker, but the tunes are full of mistakes, as if played by someone just learning. Old, broken plastic Christmas decorations will litter Santa’s village. Strings of lights will be haphazardly covering everything.
For those of you who don’t know this, most Mexican nativity scenes include a GIANT baby Jesus. The scale of the baby Jesus can be as small as a bale of hay or as big as the live animals standing around. My nativity scene will be Mexican friendly by featuring an oversized Jesus, played by Austin’s own transvestite celebrity Leslie Cockran in a diaper. The live animals will be restricted to a small herd of sheep with bad Christmas slogans spray painted onto their sides.
As the car pulls away, my super stoked, 6 foot Will Ferrill elf, will wish serious fucking Christmas joy unto them through a blow horn as I light up another cigarette. “Santa can’t talk right now. Keep moving. Santa is feeling a little sick right now, but Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!! Right now! Have a merry Christmas! Hey! You’re not having a merry Christmas! Do it! Now! Right now! Have a merry Christmas or Santa will fart in your bed and pull the comforter up over your head. It’s called a Christmas Dutch oven.”
If your ears are tender and you are easily offended, don’t watch this. It makes me laugh.