My wall calendar caused great confusion today. It's almost Christmas? Another year almost gone, lost to Morgan Freeman's wormhole lurking in Stephen Hawkings butt -- isn't that where time goes to die? Our mystery ship is venturing further into years fit for sci-fi -- (Stardate 2013 - we should be living la via loca on Mars or carpooling with George Jetson to our job at Spacely Space Sprockets or being served Romulan ale by robot maid Rosie, who will one day malfunction and kill us all). In my real day job (my night job is being a m-fing, yolo-ing boss -- whatever that means) I am constantly reminded of the current date but, for some reason, didn't realize until today the sequence of numbers means it's almost Santa's birthday.
Eww. Cue the moment, every now and then, when you slow your roll and remember you're a fragile human on a swiftly turning planet covered with billions upon billions of creatures. You are 99% oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium and phosphorus and 1% freak. Do you exist or is this a dream? Wait, before I question existence, entering a full blown marijuana-free freak out (no bueno), let's come on back to our warm and fuzzy existence, safe from reality!
It's almost Christmas! Are you done spending money on others? Is your house decorated? Is your Christmas menu planned? If you have lady parts (or are a dude who looks like a lady), did you purchase a sparkly outfit, or three, for holiday parties you'll ruin with regurgitated chunks of egg nog, guilt and shame? Do you feel the Christmas spirit coursing through your veins like tiger blood? If you're anything like me, has the urge to binge drink increased by 300%?
You hear that? Hark! It's an angel getting its wings. Did you get the coupon in your e-mail? I hope it didn't get stuck in your spam filter because you'll miss out! If you spend more than $250 at the mall, an angel will get its wings, and if you spend $500, God will love you. Oh wait, you flipped off a man while backing into a space in the mall parking lot and mumbled nasty things under your liquory breath while in the long line at the Apple store. Go directly to jail, do not collect $200 and God does not love you.
It doesn't feel like Christmas but what's Christmas supposed to feel like? It's not snowing (save your global warming talk for Al "I Created The Internet" Gore -- ever notice how he sounds like Forrest Gump and looks like Kirstie Alley?). I'm not at a Christmas party, sipping on hootch in holiday attire while purposely forgetting my diet and munching on creamy dips, chocolates and buttery cookies like Bridget Jones -- it's Christmastime so it doesn't count. I stopped getting weeks of Christmas vacation after college (wah) and this year the calendar wants to further slap me in the face with Christmas on a Tuesday. Rude. I'm at m-fing work yo cuz it ain't the freakin weekend and even R Kelly isn't going to have himself a urinating good time.
I heard a Salvation Army bell ringing the other day -- which makes me think of Christmas. Not particularly in a good way because I don't trust charitable organizations -- where is my money going? I haven't seen any fake ass poser Santa's yet, which is good because they give me the heebie jeebies like clowns.
I'm every nightmare you've ever had. I'm your worst dream come true. I'm everything you ever were afraid of.
There's a war on Christmas raging in the U.S. because the reason for the season has been forgotten in favor of getting down on our knees and praising Santa, sappy Hallmark cards, filled stockings, poisonous poinsettias, Christmas carols covered by losers like Mariah "Monkey Face" Carey, suck-my-honkey-lips mistletoe, Pop Rocks candy canes, Rudolph and his alcoholic nose, tolerance for other holidays, prickly holly, yule logs, fire hazard trees, gift-giving, fruitcake, awful sweaters and Xmas. Baby Jesus War Soldiers become upset when you wish them Happy Holidays or Season's Greetings instead of Merry Christmas, which is interesting because my Jewish friends don't get riled up when you completely forget about their existence all together and speak about their holiday in hushed tones and wonder.
I don't think there's a war on Christmas. The media profits from this fiction by hyping a small group of hysterical people because it's an easy way to elicit a response from the public. It's either "this season celebrate reason" or "Jesus is the reason for the season."
You know what? It's Dec. 13, 2012. There are 12 days left until Christmas. No, I'm not filled with the Christmas Spirit like a Port-o-John but that's OK. I'm not the type to be over-joyous and it's not Christmas yet. In our material obsessed culture, Christmas and Christmas Eve has expanded like a fat lady in spandex to black out December and the end of November. The season starts with Thanksgiving and doesn't stop its bombardment until you're hungover and broke Jan. 1 and filled with enough guilt and shame to last the year, as well as a low threshold for emotion. I was hungover the other day (shocking) and cried during a jewelry commercial. No, it didn't feature mind numbing Jane Seymour: Open your heart and love will find its way in ... open the large vital organ pumping inside me so your love can creep in like nerve gas? Fat chance Dr. Quinn. It was a better commercial than that but was still a jewelry commercial -- booze, you perplexing seductor, I love you, always and forever.
So, don't feel bad if you're more Willie Stokes than Buddy the Elf. When Christmas Eve rolls around, that's the time to enjoy being with friends and family and remember life isn't about Facebook statuses, Twitter updates, deadlines and bumper-to-bumper traffic. It's not about 50% off sales, reality television, blockbuster movies, or even, sigh, strong booze and filtered cigarettes. My reason for the season is remembering to be thankful for what I have and remembering to be nice and, if I can't, drink heavily and keep my big, fat mouth shut.
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