I hate Christmas.  I hate it to the depths of my being and with all that is holy.  It is a holiday based on a lie- or two lies depending on who you are talking to.  There isn’t any being called Santa Claus.  There never was.  Flying reindeer?  Nope.  Elves who make toys for all the little girls and boys?  Ridiculous.  Speaking of elves, why is Santa so much larger than the other elves?  Steroids, no doubt.  Whoever said that cheaters never prosper was a raving lunatic.

When I was a child we would go to one of both grandparent’s houses over the Christmas break.  You are probably imagining an idyllic ride through the snow covered woods of Northern Wisconsin merrily singing along with the radio as it played Christmas songs.  Your imagination is broken.  Trips to Grandma and Grandpa’s were nothing of the sort.  My parents were always stressed out.  Generally, they had at least one argument prior to departure, one during the trip and one on the return home because they didn’t want to argue in front of the rest of the family.  There was no singing.  My father would not permit it.  I don’t blame him.  He probably wanted to relax on his vacation but instead had to look forward to spending his day with a house full of relatives.  Plus, we always ended up either watching ice skating or Chmieleski Fun Time on television.

You don’t know what Chmieleski Fun Time is?  Idiot.  Just kidding.  Consider yourself fortunate.  Chmieleski Fun Time was an hour where people of Polish descent playing polkas on local television.  It was horrible.  Seriously, you could torture a person simply by making them watch a loop of Chmieleski Fun Time episodes.  If I never hear another accordion in my life, it will be none too soon.  As a sidebar to Polish people, find some vowels.  This isn’t the Old Country.  We speak English here.

Christmas is also the time of giving.  Hahahahaha.  Bullshit.  It is the time of “what did you buy me?”  Frankly, I wouldn’t buy anything for anybody so long as everyone agreed to reciprocate.  If I want something, I just go out and buy it.  It is simple and requires only an internal dialogue.  Buying something for someone else is exponentially more difficult.  First of all, most people in this day and age have more shit than they can possibly use.  Hence, the result of your efforts will be to add a little more shit onto the recipient’s pile.  Sure, they might thank you and act grateful.  But if they really, really wanted that specific piece of shit, they would have already purchased it from Amazon.  Everyone knows and acknowledges this fact.  Yet, there they all are, surreptitiously trying to find out what nephew Timmy wants for Christmas.  To this, I say “who in the hell cares?”  What Timmy really Timmy needs are some chores and some manners.  But they won’t go on your credit card.  Timmy gets a First Person Shooter video game so that he can learn how to wipe out dozens when he goes on a real shooting spree.

The other thing I hate about Christmas is how everyone pretends to like people they really loathe.  It is kind of like the Republicans now, except with uglier sweaters.  No, I do not want to throw in on a gift card for my boss.  She is a bitch (or he is a dick- either way).  She/he hates my guts and is trying to figure out a way to fire me.  “Merry Christmas” and here is fifty dollars to The Gap?  WTF?  I refuse.  I have principles.

This is a lie.  I grumble and throw in the same as everybody else.  Maybe it will keep me from getting the axe.  But probably not.  Christmas comes just once a year.  Termination is a game for all seasons.

Actually, there is one thing I do like about Christmas.  I enjoy the movie It’s a Wonderful Life.  It always makes me cry.  “I’m bleedin’, Bert.  I’m bleedin’.”  Of course, if they made it today, Mr. Potter would force George to sell the Savings and Loan.  George would become a middle manager who has to throw in a twenty for Mr. Potter’s gift card every Christmas.

In the end, George’s wife divorces him and marries Sam Wainwright who has a hell of a lot more money.

“Hee Haw, and Merry Christmas!  Moving that factory headquarters to Ireland got me George’s wife!”

In a desperate move, George burns his own house down for the insurance money.  But he forgot Uncle Billy was passed out drunk inside!

Actually, that isn’t that sad of an ending.  I hate Uncle Billy nearly as much as I hate Christmas.  Stupid, silly, crispy old man.

Unlike Nick Saban, perhaps you realize there was an election last week.  If you don’t know, I will provide a little synopsis of the results.  An orange retard won.  The South has risen again.  And rednecks everywhere are humping their sisters in triumph.  The bar for greatness in America is not that high.  So it goes.

Anyway, whenever there is a contest in this country you are sure to find bad winners.  Being obnoxious in victory is what this is country is all about.  Remember when they pulled Saddam Hussein out of that spider hole?  In your face, Saddam.  In your face.

Speaking of in your face, my other fat ass neighbor (not the lawn mowing fat ass) still has his Trump signs up in his yard.  He is as gleeful as a gang of white racists dragging a negro behind their truck.  Ironically, this same neighbor was a public employee for decades.  This nation is also all about hypocrisy.  That’s how you can be a capitalist and a christian at the same time.  As for my neighbor, he has ten days from election day before he has to remove his signage.  I am sure he will milk the entire grace period.  I have considered both vandalizing the signs and burning his house down.  Actually, I’ve only considered burning his house down, but I don’t want to come across as a crazed radical.  Of course, I am not really going to burn his house down.  From what I hear, the price of gasoline is going to go up.

I did, however, swear out a curse in his direction.  The curse goes something like this:

O’ Great and Mighty and Carbohydrate laden Flying Spaghetti Monster, please grant me my wish.  Give this neighbor (and now I am looking directly at this lardo who is out pretending to do yard work while listening to Fleetwood Mac that he thinks everyone else in the neighborhood wants to listen to but I am sure they really don’t) a dread disease, preferably bone cancer, but I can be satisfied with an acute case of gout if you are a merciful god.  Though no one likes merciful gods.  Not to be critical.  Anyway, O’ Great and Mighty one, perhaps a small heart attack while he is blowing leaves would be good.  A sprained ankle?  I suppose it is up to you.  I am just throwing some suggestions out there.  In your name, I pray that it be so.

Hopefully, this curse works.  In fairness to the FSG, I have been throwing out a good many curses lately so it may take a while for him to work through them.  I am sure business is brisk these days.  On the other hand, a supernatural being shouldn’t really be subject to time restrictions.

I’m planning on giving the FSG a few weeks to figure this out.  Until then, I will stare through the trees, sending my own bad Mojo (actually, MO jo) toward the gloating glutton.  Maybe that will work.  If not, plan B.  Find a dead skunk and throw it into his mailbox when nobody is looking.

Plan C?  Grab him right in the pussy.

What can I say?  I am nothing if not a planner.

Do you notice how the cool kids wear their baseball caps on backwards?  Neato.  Groovy, as well.  This is how one can identify the quarterback on the football team or whose daddy is a lawyer in town.  It is a time honored tradition.  Thirty years ago the cool kids often wore their hats on backwards.  Actually, when I think about it, wearing your hat on backward should no longer be cool.  Are short basketball shorts cool?  How about mullets?  Well, mullets are still cool for hockey players.  Regardless, I digress.  I guess wearing your hat on backwards will always be a cool thing for kids to do.

That does not excuse, however, the number of grown men I have noticed wearing their hats on backwards.  You are thirty five, with a wife and three kids.  You aren’t cool.  How can you be when you act like a child yourself?  Middle aged people buy themselves a Mercedes or BMW and own 6000 square foot houses.  That’s how old people do cool.  Maybe they put a lot of gel in their hair, but they definitely do not wear an Under Armour hat on backwards.  Poor form.  Plus, it cuts into the kids time in the sun.

It is kind of like when forty year old women wear tall boots and short skirts.  No.  I don’t care if you look good or not.  That isn’t the point.  You are a member of the PTA and have a Soccer Mom sticker in the back window of your black SUV.  Retain your dignity.

Retain your dignity.  There is a phrase that has been put to mothballs.  I understand that people don’t want to get old.  It’s depressing.  But there is no stopping it.  I just don’t see any reason to lose one’s self respect along the way.  If you are in your late thirties and standing there with your wife watching your ten year old play PeeWee football, I can guarantee there are a couple of seventeen year old kids mocking the hell out of you.  And they should be.

Mocking old people is one of the few things that I remember from my youth.  When I was twelve the word “awesome” became suddenly call.  Everything was awesome.  I lied.  Not everything.  You know what was not awesome.  It was not awesome when somebody’s mom used the word “awesome.”  It was plain sad.  Just as your wearing a ball cap backwards is plain sad.  You aren’t an athlete anymore.  You know how I can tell.  Because the quarterback doesn’t have a receding hairline and a beer belly.  That is what old guys have.

You know, the MO should start mocking old people.  I mean, people who were twenty years older than me when I was 17 are still twenty years older than me.  It is just that they are retired now.

“Look at old man Anderson over there blowing the leaves out of his driveway.  He thinks he is really cool.  What a dork.”

“Did you see Mrs. Wilson at the ballgame.  She had on those jeans with the spangly ass pockets.  Christ, she must be heading toward seventy.  Who in the hell has caramel colored hair?  That style is like five years behind the times.  She probably still listens to Journey.”

I feel much better now.  Maybe I should grow my mullet back out.  After all, why should hair in the back of my head be punished because the hair in the front is falling out?  That is cutting off my hair to spite, well, my hair.  Eh.  Everything isn’t Shakespeare, you know.

I had something else I was going to write, but I’m starting to get tired now.  Time for a little tea and some reading.  At least I don’t need cheaters yet, like that stupid, old man across the creek.

That chubby little bastard lives to putter around his yard.  I’m never going to be like that guy.  I’ll put money on it right now.

Where’s my hat?