Scrooge you guys, I'm going home

If you've known me for any reasonable amount of time, you will know that I'm not the Christmas-cheeriest bitch on the block. Aside from the pretty pretty lights, which I dig in a big way, there isn't much about the season that sets me to tingling with joy. Let's face it: several years in retail didn't convince me that this is the most wonderful time of the year. The commercials are so bad and so insistent and so fucking repeated on a short loop that I'd be tempted to smash the TV if not for the fact that I am addicted to far too many shows. Plus, donkey porn just doesn't look as stunning on my computer. So the TV stays intact. This time of year holds no religious significance for me, godless agnostic that I am, and I'm too old to give a shit about Santa, unless he wants to bring me a big wad of cash; then I could certainly give a shit about Santa, and possibly even a polar blow job if there are enough big bills in the card. I am also quite sickened by people I see who are totally focused on buying overpriced status gifts for everyone they know, people who bitch about how much money they're spending, but act like it's required for them to go overboard with generosity so as to impress people they probably don't even like that much.

And don't even get me going on the mongoloids who pitch a hissy fit every year because some people choose to utter the words "Happy holidays." When the police come by and order you to take down your tree and ornaments on December 24, then you may consider it a War on Christmas. Go on, say "Merry Christmas" to me all you want, free of charge. I don't mind. But if I feel like including all the celebrated days in one phrase, I'm damned well going to do so. At least I'm not saying "Hope you break some bones this holiday season!" or "Yuletide greetings, you douchebag!"

I could probably get by all that, if it weren't for the music. Christmas music, for the most part, makes me want to pour cement in my ears until my head crashes to the ground and there is, once again, sweet silence. Don't get me wrong; I think a lot of the music is very interesting, and there are even some singers who do a bang-up job with the material (I'm thinking the Roches). But that's never what they play in the stores. Here I am, going into Walmart at midnight, just minding my own business and buying my beer and vaseline, and my ears are assaulted by a steady stream of singers whose voices are somewhere in the range between fingernails on chalkboard and so high only dogs can hear, singing Christmas songs that would have been so much better left as instrumentals. The only saving grace is that, if I can hoof it over to the beer aisle quickly enough, the sonic outrage from the store loudspeakers is drowned out by the sound of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, which the store is nice enough to play at a decent volume from speakers mounted on a wine display. So I stand there and soak in the classical music, then make my dash to the checkout lanes, humming Spring to myself so as to drown out some warthog in heat singing about harking for the angels to sing (so why doesn't the bitch shut the fuck up and hark already?).


Yeah, the holidays make me even grumpier than I am the rest of the year, which is quite a feat when you stop and think about it. But then someone goes and does something nice for me and suddenly, I feel like a true assbag for wanting to punch a snowman right in the carrot.

My sister, for instance, came over last night for our traditional Thursday-night brain rot of General Hospital, and she brought early Christmas presents for my babies. And then my heart grew three sizes.




Auntie Squirl brought the boys a jester wand with most tempting feathers (pictured above with the conquering hero Friday), three fuzzy mice (as opposed to fuzzy dice, which seem to confuse the cats to no end), and two large tubs of catnip. Oh, yeah...we're gonna be fucked up this Christmas!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go make my employees work overtime on Monday and then perhaps knock a small child off his crutches.