Let’s talk about Christmas.
First, let’s get this straight. I’m not one of those people who decks the halls the day after Halloween, and don’t even mention the “C-word” to me until December officially begins.
If you ask me, Christmas music should be banned until the week preceding Dec. 25.
By the time December even rolls around, I’m already thoroughly fed up with grandma getting run over by a reindeer or mommy kissing Santa Claus. Please, keep your extra-marital affairs to yourself.
And the true meaning of Christmas, you ask?
VENGEANCE.
No, I guess it’s presents.
Still not right?
Well, how about warm fuzzy feelings of joy and love? Yeah, I don’t think you can find much of that all wrapped up in the stress of affording and finding the perfect gift, choosing which parent you’ll visit and desperately trying not to run off screaming into the night.
The only two good things about Christmas are ugly sweaters and the stop-motion Christmas movies on ABC.
But these two things can’t make up for the awful Christmas season. People are so caught up in material things, they go absolutely insane. You can barely even drive to the grocery store without getting mobbed. People are often too concerned about getting all the trappings of what we consider to be Christmas-appropriate that we forget to spend time with our family and loved ones.
Whatever someone says, you can’t spend true quality time while wrestling over a frozen turkey and the last can of yams. But don’t let me tell you how to spend your holiday; I could see some memories being made that way.
Lying is also an integral part of Christmas.
Got your 12th pair of long underwear from Aunt Mildred? Lie.
An extra special white elephant gift that makes you want to puke? Lie.
Really, the first time I learned I shouldn’t always tell the truth was during Christmas.
Thanksgiving is a much better holiday, to be totally honest.
Call me a Grinch, and you might just be right, but even if I wanted to enjoy Christmas, my schedule wouldn’t allow it.
As the one true Grinch said, “I’ve got it all planned out: 4:00, wallow in self pity; 4:30, stare into the abyss; 5:00, solve world hunger, tell no one; 5:30, Jazzercize; 6:30, dinner with me – I can’t cancel that again; 7:00, wrestle with my self-loathing … I’m booked. Of course, if I bump the loathing to 9, I could still be done in time to lay in bed, stare at the ceiling and slip slowly into madness. But what would I wear?”
