With Christmas right around the corner, and Armageddon a few years off (my prediction is that the whole system comes down on January 10, 2026- so enjoy these times while they last), I turn to the real meaning of the holidays. The answer to the meaning of the holidays is 42. Heh heh. It isn’t. That’s the meaning of life. Holidays are all about deception and hypocrisy.

For example, you’ll hear the phrase “the true meaning of Christmas” bandied about. If you don’t know by now, no one believes in whatever this is supposed to be. Christmas is about consumerism. Wanton, asinine consumerism. If you are skeptical, consider that Americans will spend $6.1 billion on Christmas trees this year. Six billion? For a decapitated fire hazard? Ho ho ho ho, indeed. Of course, the Christmas tree originated as a pagan celebration. No Christ needed. Or is he? Consider this from a Catholic blog:

“There’s a rich tradition behind Christmas trees, and a few lessons to be learned—about multiculturalism, about respect for other religions and for nature, and about the human bond that links all people, Christian and non-Christian.”

Ho ho ho ho hooooooo. If there is one thing that Catholics have, it is respect for other religions. Who can forget the respect Catholicism showed for Islam during the Crusades? Judging by the number of private high schools name the Crusaders, it is certainly not Catholics. In fairness, pointing out the hypocrisy of the Catholic church is like shooting fish in a barrel. On a Friday. Friday is when Catholics shoot fish in barrels. Some saint told them to do that. Saint Ruger, perhaps. Patron saint of barrel shooting and the NRA.

Speaking of spending, it turns out that $15.2 billion is spent on unwanted gifts. And this alone is a misnomer. They aren’t gifts if no one wants them. They are shit someone has to discreetly throw away after an appropriate amount of time has passed. Personally, I prefer that no one ever gives me a gift. Gifts are for children or aggrieved wives. I am neither of these things (technically, anyway). The one caveat is socks. A person can always use socks. If the only gift anyone gave was socks, the world would be a much better place. Warm feet, warm feelings.

Another fact about Christmas is that 45% of people say they are willing to go into debt to make themselves happy for the holidays. In an interesting turn, only 41% of people are willing to go into debt to make their spouse or children happy at Christmas. Bah Humbug, you selfish bastards. Where is your Christmas spirit? Debt is truly the gift that keeps on giving. Until you file for bankruptcy prior to next Christmas.

“Let old financial obligations be forgot…” or something like that.

When Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, he hoped to prove to people that it wasn’t wealth that was important, but how you treated other people. This message has not aged well. Either has Dickens. He has been dead for 150 years!! He was also an alcoholic who beat his wife. Why would we listen to anything he had to say? Speaking of hypocrites.

If A Christmas Carol was written today, Scrooge would be a heroic job creator who got Cratchit to pull himself up by his bootstraps. Scrooge would impart the lessons of capitalism to the visiting ghosts, owning their liberal poltergeist asses. The ghosts would realize that Tiny Tim’s death, while unfortunate, was simply a matter of Tim’s father’s inability to provide his son with the medical care he needed. Instead of whining about coal, Cratchit should have been working some overtime. Scrooge ends the tale by coming up with the idea of franchising his business, thus increasing profits and continuing the ascendance of the best economic system the world has ever known. (This paragraph brought to you by Walmart. Save Money. Live Better.)

I know, I know. Christmas is really about family. It’s about everyone coming together and eating a good meal and enjoying each other’s company. HO HO HO HO HO. (Capital HO’s) Lies. Lies. And more lies.

Christmas gatherings are chaotic, stressful events where everyone has to repress their resentment of their family members. Yay! Somebody’s dog is pissing on the presents. Hoorah!! Sister Susan goes off on Brother Bill because of what he said to her in 2006 when she was still married to her ex-husband who nobody liked, but had to put up with, because Sue has always been so sensitive about what anybody says to her. Of course, that doesn’t stop her from giving her opinion after downing four Brandy Old Fashions. Then it all comes out. Grandma cries. The dog barks. People try to escape to the ballgame or the bathroom.

Unfortunately, you can’t sit in there all day, reading old National Geographics and wondering if your niece has any weed on her and if it is appropriate for you to ask that question. She is 22, after all. Would it really hurt anybody? And you didn’t do anything. You’re seven years younger than Sue and nine years younger than Bill. You hardly remember them from your childhood. You have your own problems. Like the fact that your wife spend $3,700 on Christmas presents this year. Even though you really need a new hot water heater. And you know those SOB’s aren’t cheap. The HVAC guys will definitely need to pay their own Christmas bill. And why is that fucking dog scratching at the bathroom door? At least it’s not your house. You hate yappy dogs. What is the point? Just get a cat, for Chrissakes.

Your four year old great-nephew knocks on the door. Apparently, he is in league with the stupid dog.
“What?” you yell, a trifle harshly to a four year old. On the other hand, he might grow up to be an axe murderer or a hedge fund manager.

“I have to go to the potty,” comes the little voice behind the door.

“I’m taking a shit,” you respond. It is a foolish response as it should be obvious that the boy is not unaccompanied. Too late. You hear your other niece murmur to your nephew and then stomp away. You don’t really care. At least until your wife asks you about it on the way home.

You close your eyes and lean back on the toilet. The ride home. There is your Christmas present. Plug in your phone, set Pandora to Tool radio, and listen blissfully to the anger and angst of the 90’s.

“Learn to swim, learn to swim, learn to swim.” Falalalala, falalalaaaaaaaaa.

I do a lot of crossword puzzles. I hear they are a good way to keep a mind sharp. And there is nothing more important in America than a sharp mind. More importantly, one will need all of one’s wits in the upcoming apocalypse. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m giving up on any pretense relative to the downfall of society. The first step is acceptance. Only then can we move on in life.

Speaking of moving on, I am doing this crossword puzzle and there is a knock at the door. I want to ignore it. But then I realize the garage doors are up. What if the knocker is a thief? If I were a thief, I would always knock. It is both polite and savvy. It gives you an excuse when you are found roaming around someone’s home. I would feel badly for a thief in my house. The only things that they could carry out are books. No one wants those. Firestarters, maybe.

“I am the Firestarter. I am the Firestarter. I am the Firestarter.” This will be my name after everything goes to shit. If you knew the song was by Prodigy you deserve a reward. Unfortunately, as William Munny says, “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it.” Plus, it is important to be intrinsically motivated. That’s what other people tell me, anyway. Regardless, don’t come looking for somebody named MO in the aftermath of smoking ruins and general chaos. Firestarter. Also, don’t steal my apocalypse name. There will be no laws and I will cheerfully kill you over something as stupid as a name.

Knock, knock, knock. A three knocking son-of-a-bitch at the door. Since I don’t know who in the hell is a high-fashion shoe designer, I go upstairs to see who is knocking, knocking at my chamber door. If only it had been a menacing raven. Nope. Fucking Jehovah’s Witnesses. Two adult women and a young girl, maybe twelve years old. Apparently, among other decrees, Jehovah doesn’t think school is that important. I want to shut the door on them, but decide otherwise.

“Do any of you know anything about high-fashion shoe designers?” I ask. Technically, I don’t know if they are really Jehovah’s Witnesses. And maybe they like shoes.

The adult women smile the weird, awkward smile of the unredeemably religious. “Unredeemably” isn’t a word? Fuck you, Word Press and your mechanical editor. It’s a word now. The kid makes a face like she has swallowed soap. I use that bit of literary description because I assume Jehovah’s Witnesses still wash kid’s mouths out with soap. Having had that particular experience I can say that it is both not pleasant and that it is completely ineffective. Fuck. Shit. Damn. Hell. What a waste of good soap.

“What’s that?” says the taller woman. She is about my age. The woman has very pasty skin and red cheeks. She clearly doesn’t tan much. It wouldn’t help as she isn’t very good looking. Everything on her face is either too small or too big and not very symmetrical. Like they melted her just a little once.

“Shoes. High-fashion.” I wave them off. “Never mind.”

The other woman launches into her spiel and tries to hand me a little green Watchtower. I wonder if she knows who Jimi Hendrix was. Probably not. This woman has very pasty skin and red cheeks. She is a lot thinner than the tall one. My guess is the tall one is eating the shorter one’s rations. Or the tall one could be a succubus. A lesbian succubus, in this instance.

I nod along and try to figure out the high-fashion shoes thing. It is difficult without having the puzzle right in front of me. Actually, it is impossible as I know nothing about fashion, high or otherwise. Luckily, where we are going there will be no fashion. Unless human ear necklaces are considered fashionable. Could be, I suppose.

Before the small woman can finish, I raise my hand and smile apologetically. “I’m probably not interested. But I hope that you all have a good day.” I also hope that the kid will go to school. But that is clearly not a priority.

Usually, the Jehovah’s Witnesses take the hint and leave. But the succubus is persistent. I suppose that is a defining characteristic of succubi. Lesbian succubi notwithstanding. She tries to shove the green book into my chest and starts talking about knowing Jesus.

I shake my head. “I am the firestarter. I am the firestarter. I’m a trouble starter, fucking instigator.” Those are pretty much all the lyrics I know. But they are effective. The women back away and thank me for my time. The little girl is clearly frightened. They seem to think I may have a mental health problem. The Firestarter is not amused, but he will be able to settle scores soon enough.

My uninvited visitors leave. They are driving a Ford Focus. It is bronze and unobtrusive. A car befitting of their purpose and station. I salute them as they drive off to continue their proselytizing. They are wasting their time with all these Lutheran farmers. But life is folly.

A gang of chickadees has gathered at the feeder, eating the sunflower seeds my wife has left them. They are oblivious to nothing but survival. I both admire and envy them. Then one flies into the picture window. I quit admiring and envying that one. I name him Howard. Howard, the Dead Chickadee. He could have been my friend in another life.

Jimmy Choo. That’s the high-fashion shoe designer. If you have heard of him, other than in passing, stop reading this blog right now. Take some self-defense classes before it is too late.

I do have a bit of knowledge to pass on to you. When looking for the Firestarter, the pass phrase is Jimmy Choo.

Jimmy Choo.

In the time in which the MO has gone away, virtually nothing has changed. I don’t even know why I am bothering. Orange Fat Bastard continues to chime in on things that he clearly knows nothing about. His adherents continue to repeat false claims. There are Trump/Pence 2020 signs all over the place. California is still a cesspool of liberal debauchery. We still have to wear masks. At least some places. A variant of Covid is sweeping the nation. A guy named Cuomo is in trouble for sexual harassment. Civil unrest and religious animosity circles the globe.

In the famous words of ex-Vikings coach Jerry Burns, “Fuckers.”

However, in the interest of cliches, it is always darkest before the dawn. Assuming this saying is true (though it clearly isn’t), we can be sure of a sunny morning – metaphorically speaking. Anyway, I was trying to tell myself this obviously untrue bullshit the other day when I was in the grocery store. My quest was to get some celery and one green pepper. The celery went well. The green pepper was shriveled and pathetic, like a 102 year old Hulk’s penis. Poor old Hulk can’t even keep his damn pants on. Of course, his pants would have always ripped off like the rest of his clothes, but Marvel isn’t one of those kinds of magazines. Apparently, purple pants have a great deal of stretch in them. Regardless, his penis looks like a shriveled green pepper now.

“Hulk smash!” old Hulk howls when noting the state of his dingdong’s disrepair. Hey! Dingdong’s Disrepair would make an awesome band name. If there were still bands. Which basically there aren’t. Though The Offspring are still hanging in there. You can pry their guitars from their cold, dead hands. So, Hulk shouldn’t do that. But he has Alzheimer’s in this scenario. And now no recognizable penis. Probably squashed his green testes in the act as well. But maybe not. It depends completely on the angle.

Once I found the celery and the shriveled penis pepper… Hey! Another good band name.

“And now, the greatest punk band known to mankind, Shriveled Penis Pepper!” The music starts. It’s their best song. “Hulk Smash!!! Yeah yeah yeah. Hulk smash my balls!!!!:

I had to get some soup, too. Campbell’s chicken noodle. I am a simple man. And my wife balks at buying it. It appears that she is a bit of a soup snob. Soup Snob Bitch is another song of Shriveled Penis Pepper. But that song has nothing to do with my wife or any other female who has ever been affiliated with me, living or dead. It’s just a song, bro.

While standing in line, I was looking around, mentally judging the obvious stupidity and laziness of others, when I saw a familiar face. It was a guy who used to be management at a former workplace. I did not like him. I found him rather stupid and dishonest. Often, I heaped silent curses on him when his stupidity and dishonesty were displayed in my direction. But guess what? My curses worked!!!!

Hahahaha. This guy has aged like forty years in twenty. And he has the sidling, hunched temperament of a whipped cur. Oh, glory. Sweet, sweet glory. To see a former enemy (or at least former irritant) reduced to such a pathetic representation of a human being– Hooray!!! You know what he looked like? A pale, shriveled penis man. I held up the pepper for a side-by-side. There could be no doubt about it. It was like the movie Thinner and I was the old gypsy man. “Eat shit, White Man from Town!!!”

From now on I am going to speak like the old gypsy man. Hopefully, that will help my curse-making. I’m always about self-improvement. And revenge. Revenge, or at least thoughts of revenge, keep my going on cold winter nights.

The moral of this story is simple. When bad people fail, you can be happy.

Imagine Bruce Banner the next morning. “What the hell?”

In this scenario, Bruce Banner is still cognitively lucid. Otherwise, it’s just Bruce Banner sitting in a wheelchair drooling. With smashed junk.

Bruce Banner’s Drool. Album– You Wouldn’t Like Us When We are Angry

Song list

song 1- Why Isn’t There Any Campbell’s Soup in this House?

song 2- Chicken Noodle Divorce

song 3- Green, Hairy Palms No More

song 4- Shriveled Penis Face

song 5- White Man from Town (Slow Sodomy)

song 6- Sometimes Autism Lasts a Long Time

song 7- Cuomo Octopus

song 8- Jokes about Nursing Homes (Lose their Luster)

song 9- 1001 Uses for Green Peppers (the Incel song)