Monday, December 14, 2009

Holiday Shmoliday


Every year the same ritual occurs: Slaughtered turkey sacrificed on the hot plate of interracial meat.  Your family insists that age before beauty should assume the front of the buffet styled line. So the albino part of the turkey is rarely left by the time your little cousin drips hot gravy on your hand and you are forced to spend twenty minutes squatting on haunches by the dog spout and running cold water on your scorched appendage. The dinner table conversation follows with an all too familiar spiel from your jokingly misogynistic cousin who insists that your place in society is the kitchen. Systematically, the dialogue is followed by a punch to his jugular and a swift witticism about gender identity and his ability to pull off a pleaded skirt. But traditions are overrated.
Let’s talk insanity and its parallel to the holiday season. Shopping is no longer retail therapy but rather a catalyst to scheduling an appointment with the local psychiatrist and a bucket of crazy pills. Did someone say Fruitcake?
Even as I write this-slouched over at my computer like Quasimodo ringing his bell of sufferance and death, I cannot help but leave my posture marred and scoliosis-like due to habit. It becomes comfortable and a means to flee despondency at the call of a greater evil: Christmas music, Consumerism, and Candy canes.
Do not be fooled by the soothing coo of its alliterative disguise. They are the flaws of capitalism at the hand of an angry retired V.P for the corporate “man”. Who happens to wears socks with sandals.
In order to scrooge-up the holiday spirit I have devised a list of gripes allowing readers to wear the eggnog goggles of perspective:

1. If the season wasn’t made to be hostile and scandalous then why are there songs about grandma being run over by a reindeer or mothers portrayed as the town bicycle? Did you really see mommy kissing Santa clause or was it some half priced street corner escort? I know for some the two are easily confused.

2. Let’s get back to muck-raking the Norman Rockwell Christmas’ in our childhood belting, in a Tony Soprano, of “Jingle Bells, batman Smells,”  I’m not sure if some doped up college student or Big Bird wrote that song, either way it would explain why “Robin laid an egg.” Having trouble conceptualizing that image?  The vividness of a grown man squatting out an egg was as horrifying then as it is now. However, we must move past that. We must forgive, forget, and pull an Oedipus-sour-ous-Rex, in order to pioneer the upcoming generation of Helen Kellers blindly discovering a way to exist.

3. Parents tell their children to believe in what essentially describes a pedophile: “He sees you when you’re sleeping/ He knows when you’re awake” and he passes out free candy while he motions for you to sit on his lap. Really, guys?

4.  Why do we need to jingle all the way? Let’s make our own bells jingle, whether it’s some of the way, half of the way, or most of the way.

5. Seriously, What is the appeal to giving Christmas socks as gifts? Did Jesus use to wear them with his sandals?

6. Isn’t it enough that we are masochists the other 364 days of the year that we need to subject our ears to Christmas country music? As if country music by itself isn’t enough to spin my wheels off a cliff and pull a Thelma and Louise. Adding a few “ho ho ho’s”  to a three chord riff and a timeline about Bubba’s drunk escapades after Jenny Rae broke his heart and pick-up truck does not make it any more enjoyable to listen to.

7. Notice how the black Friday shoppers turn into bare knuckled ninja assassins whence the doors of the beloved (enter store name) open? I imagine people do not even get that hot and bothered trying to break down the gates of heaven in stampede fashion, especially since they flew the red-eye up from Satan’s Geyser. Who said Yosemite was inactive? Not the little elves at Santa’s workshop.

8. Elf is just another name for demonic force wearing an over-comercialized smurf costume. For other synonyms see: Leprechaun ; Bob Saget minus three feet.

9. I don’t think we have killed enough living things; why don’t we chop down a tree from the forest, drag it through our living rooms, decorate it with glass balls and lights, and hike up the electricity bill by a few hundo a month.  And hey, so we don’t feel like we’ve caused pinecone genocide we can penetrate a star or an angel clothed in velvet on the top of the tree. That’s not weird at all.

10. Why doesn’t Christmas get something classic like a dreidel to spin? Instead, we’re left spinning a porcelain baby Jesus and kissing cousin Alfred on the forehead because he was socially marginalized after last year’s pageant mishap with Mary’s left hoo-ha and a young goat.

11. Whatever happened to the indentured servants system and Child Labor laws in the U.S.? That should come back out for the holidays. If Uncle Billy’s gut can make an appearance, so can little mail order children from Oliver Twist and the Mayflower.

12. Who chose reindeer to be Santa’s B.A. flying vehicle? Penguins by far have more personality (through pragmatics and sarcasm) they have wings, and never they appear exceptionally intoxicated in a family photo. Essentially, Penguins should replace reindeer in every Santa clause story. The End.

13. Your Mom

14. Your mom’s mom and the magnitude of kisses unleashed only during the holiday season. It is as if leprosy plagues your body during every other ground hog and Yom Kippur celebration. Why only Christmas?


15. Reading a holiday gripe’s humor piece written by a jaded, sleep deprived, under paid editor working two jobs for the price of one small child in a third world country: His name is Paraswamera. He likes to pet soft things and help his mother with chores. His teeth look better than mine do –with their Crest White Strips glean –in his Gospel for Asia picture on my refrigerator.

‘Tis the season to be a frugal son of a B--Best Buy consumer that swarms discount prices in droves wearing their crucifixes as they elbow the guy next to them in the no no square.
Fa la la la la
La
La
La

15.5 When squinting the root word of “satan” is “santa”. Anybody?


Laaaaaa

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