Tuesday, December 12, 2006

So Jesus the Christ was born a couple thousand years ago, and that means it's...

... time to go shopping at 4:30 in the morning the day after Thanksgiving!

Just as Baby Jesus intended.

Only, I'm not going, see. As a rigid non-Christian and, ergo, social pariah, it's difficult for me to get in the mood to hang icicle lights in honor of an ancient pagan celebration co-opted by your more enterprising and humorless recent religions.

Now, don't get me wrong; I actually don't mind Christmas, or whatever stupid holiday your inferior religion is stubbornly demanding be recognized by the rest of the nation. I mean, you've got the songs and the lights and the dying trees and the songs and the tooth-shattering candy canes and the lucrative employment opportunities for midgets and fat, bearded pedophiles and the songs and the TV specials and the friendly "Keep Christ in Christmas" banners on the lawns of your local zealots and the songs and the Salvation Army bellringers whose piercing, accusatory stares you so desperately try to avoid as you scurry into Target and the assholes in the mall parking lot who TAKE THEIR SWEET FUCKING TIME GETTING THEIR UGLY LITTLE SPAWN INTO THEIR PIECE OF SHIT MINIVAN WHEN YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THAT SPACE FOR FIFTEEN GODDAMNED MINUTES AND THE SONGS THE SONGS THE FUCKING FUCKING SONGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*wheezes heavily, slowly catches breath, takes twice the recommended dosage of his prescription anti-depressant medication, enters a tranquil, euphoric state*


I love this time of year.

And this season, whether you're bowing before Jesus or Santa or the menorah or Ooloompopo, the Kwanzaa Kid or Sam Walton, Father of Our Heavenly Wal-Mart, just remember...

Nobody will like that "special" surprise gift you picked out for them. Nobody. Not. One. Body.

It was a nice thought, though. Buuuut if it was the "thought" that truly counted, capitalism would crumble overnight. And you don't want that for Christmas, do you, Stalin?

Ahhh. I do love this time of year. I really do. Yes, indeed...

With the exception of the following:


1.) Fruitcake

To be uncharacteristically fair, I've never actually eaten fruitcake. This is on account of the fact that I have no desire to place in my intestinal tract what looks like puke in bread form.

2.) My mother's egg nog

Egg nog = good

Southern Comfort = better

Egg nog + Southern Comfort = What exactly am I being punished for, again?

3.) My sister-in-law's green cookies*

You see, her secret ingredient is ... cheese.

Now, be sure to keep that secret to yourself because if there's one thing this planet needs less of, it's candy with fucking cheese in it.

* It has recently come to my attention that these pastry perversions are actually meant as appetizers, which then begs the question as to just why in the hell were they made on cookie-baking day and stored in containers with the non-cheese-riddled confections, for Christ's sake.

4.) Candy canes

Ahhh, candy canes. The candy corn and black jelly beans of the Christmas season: No one wants them anywhere near their mouths, but it sure wouldn't feel like the holidays without 'em.


1.) Anything by Rankin-Bass

You know what I'm talking about. Those crappy, creepy effin' puppet specials like "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "The Year Without a Santa Claus" and "Stilted, Zombified Marionettes Engaging in Gross Acts of Racial Profiling and Social Darwinism."

2.) Frosty the Snowman

All right, I'll accept the fact that Frosty is as far out of the closet as last year's Goodwill donations, but come on. A talking pile of snow is not magical. It's terrifying, no matter how happy it is to help you redesign your guest room.

And who are these people kidding? Frosty doesn't get shipped off to colder climes for the Summer, destined to return and prance about with your children once the geese fly south for the season. He's subjected to extensive and intrusive scientific testing before ultimately being melted down, his remains to be studied by military and science experts for years to come. Also, his existence will be officially denied by the government and all witnesses forced to recant their statements or mysteriously disappear.

3.) Charlie Brown's Christmas Special

It's very telling that America as a nation gets such a sick kick out of watching a balding hydrocephalic who suffers from severe manic depression. This poor kid is miserable, you assholes, and can you blame him? He's surrounded by imbeciles, bitches, and socially-retarded blankyphiles, none of whom would shed a single tear if he duct-taped a plastic bag around his head. They're all too busy setting footballs for no one to kick and waiting for pumpkins to appear in a pumpkin patch ... or something, I don't know. He also owns a dog that thinks it can fly its doghouse around like a damn biplane. Fucking idiot.

If all this doesn't sound terribly amusing to you, there's a very good, solid reason for that. It's not. Charlie Brown and Cohorts are very similar to Mickey Mouse and Friends in one important respect: They're not funny. Wow, the decorating of your shitty little tree provides a brief respite from the constant, unrelenting ache of rejection and self-loathing you experience the other 364 days of the year (add one for leap year). Laugh it up, Chuck!


1.) Tinsel

Whoever created tinsel obviously had a.) no children and b.) a houseful of maids to pick up after his littering ass. Tinsel is a bright, shiny way to give yourself something else to clean up after the holidays. Why not just toilet paper your kitchen, or empty a couple bottles of spaghetti sauce in the den?

2.) The term "trimming the tree"

I'm not "trimming" anything, moron, I'm decorating the tree.

Actually, I'm doing no such thing. That's women's work.

3.) Socks and underwear as gifts

Socks and underwear* are not gifts; they are necessities. Are you honestly going to tell me that you only supply your dependents with the basic articles of clothing required for their warmth and comfort on the birthdays of major deities? Or do you make it a point to wrap up Li'l Timmy's Fruit-of-the-Looms in a pretty pink bow every time he needs a new set of skidmarkers?

* This gripe not applicable to any scanty unmentionables courtesy of Victoria's Secret or Frederick's of Hollywood. In fact, it's my very firm belief that these are the only gifts you fine ladies out there should be receiving.

4.) Monstrous Inflatable Snowman/Santa/Reindeer/Polar Bear with Candy Cane/Snowglobe Containing Snowman, Santa, Reindeer, and Polar Bear with Candy Cane

What better way to tell the folks on your block, "Yep. I'm that neighbor"?


1.) "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer"

The moral of this charming story is that if you're gonna be different, you'd better have a useful fucking skill to be exploited. You know, like freaks in a circus sideshow. And, um, it might also come in handy if your particular talent couldn't be easily replicated by a standard household item, like, oh, say, a flashlight.

How heartening to know that ostracization and class prejudice are just as prevalent in ungulate society as they are in ours. And I'd like to go on record saying that "reindeer games," whatever the hell they are, have got to rank among the animal kingdom's most goddawful boring activities ever.

2.) "Frosty the Snowman"

This jolly, happy soul romps and plays and frolicks with the many unsupervised townschildren. What a joy; what a magical, wonderful creation; what a true embodiment of the playful, generous spirit of the season...

... then he melts.

Merry Christmas, kids!

3.) "Christmas Shoes"

*rubs temples* Oh, sweet heavenly god, do I hate this soggy, sloppy sack of shmaltz in audio form. For those of you lucky bastards never to have endured this glurgy* drivel, allow me to sum up its inspid "plot" for you:

* For a detailed description of this adjective, type "glurge glossary" in the search engine of www.snopes.com. I'd provide the direct link for you, but the owners of the site are real pricks about linking to their articles.

Some ragged kid's mom is going to meet Jesus tonight, and I ain't talking about attending your local Nativity play. Instead of consulting a trained medical specialist with an emphasis in treating her specific affliction, her son -- naturally -- decides that the only sensible thing to do in this dire situation is buy her some fucking shoes. Thing is, he has no money with which to buy her this magical pair of useless fucking death shoes.

The protagonist of our song, a self-centered dickhead who views himself as something of a living saint, wisely pays for the mooch's shoes both to symbolize his recognition of the true spirit of Christmas and to get the stupid little shit out of line. Mr. Moneybags then decides that the meaning of this encounter was to provide God with an opportunity "to remind [him] what Christmas is all about."

Yes, you egomaniacal asshole. Your Lord Above only has an entire universe to coordinate, but sure, He'll take time out of His busy schedule to help some bourgeois yutz who has enough funds to go about buying shoes for every flea-bitten quasi-orphan he crosses paths with rediscover the meaning behind His son's birthday.


4.) "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"

How, how, how do parents explain the lyrics of this saccharine shitfest to their Kris Kringle-infatuated offspring? I mean, the kid in the song watches his maternal progenitor sucking face with the Jolly Old Elf. This can only mean one of two things to a child who still believes in Santa Claus:

a.) Santa Claus is actually Daddy and, therefore, not real, thus summarily shattering a lie that has been ingrained in the poor little turd since birth, or

b.) Mommy's a whore.

5.) "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas"

No you don't.

6.) "Christmas Carol"

In this pile of vocal vomit, a tiny orphan (?) girl asks a department store Santa to drop her off at some unsuspecting, child-starved couple's house for Christmas. See, her name is Carol, and she was born on Christmas Day. Get it? Get it? Anyhow, this foster home flee-er (how are all the kids in these holiday songs running about all willy-nilly in the first place?) gets her prayers answered when Pseudo-Santa the Sucker decides to accept her as a tax deduction ...

... and promptly gets arrested for child abduction. Or so I'd like to think happens after the song's final verse.

The point of the song, dear children, is that fake Santas will always be able to grant your greatest wish. Always. Always, always, always.

But it sure helps if your name is a lame pun.

7.) "A Few of My Favorite Things"

This aural dysentery is a song from the shitcraptic musical The Sound of Music. It also has jack-all nothing to do with Christmas. What the fuck is next? "Old Man River" for Passover?

8.) "Little Drummer Boy"

BABY JESUS: So ... what have you fellas brought to celebrate the arrival of your Lord and Savior, sent down from Heaven Above to bathe you all in His eternal love, hmm? Let's see ... Ooo, I see we have some gold here, gold is always good. And, uh, what is this? Perfume? Potpourri? Ha, ha! Just givin' ya a hard time, Balthy. Frankincense. Yes, very nice. I'll be sure to burn this after my first stinky. Oops! Looks like that'll be right about now. Ha, ha! I kid, I kid. And, we also have ... hrmm, some ... myrrh. (pause) Well, you can never have too much myrrh. I guess. Uh, thanks, Caspar. You know, is it Caspar or Gaspar? I can never remember... You know what? We'll talk later. (pause) So ... is that everyth-- Oh, hello there, you. Yes, you, with the -- the drum there. What's your name?

LITTLE DRUMMER BOY: Um, little drummer boy.

BABY JESUS (rubbing his temples): Right, I see where this is going. Okay, LDB, whattaya got for the mortal incarnation of God, hmm?

LITTLE DRUMMER BOY: I am but a poor little boy who, somehow, was able to afford this ridiculously useless drum in the middle of a desert. Shall I play for you?

(long, dangerous silence)

BABY JESUS: Excuse me?

LITTLE DRUMMER BOY: Shall I play for you, my Lord?

BABY JESUS: Wait, wait, wait, just -- just wait. Wait. Here I am, plunked down in the middle of this barren, Me-forsaken future warzone, freezing My ass off among the ox and the lamb and their collective shit -- all to bring you a world of peace and joy and harmony and enlightenment and you -- you want to play me a fucking song on your cheap-ass drum? Tell me, Melchior, what's the going rate for a "pa rum pum pum pum" on the free market these days?


BABY JESUS: Shut up. Listen, Cheapskate, take your drum and hit the dunes. I'll be looking for you on Judgment Day, dipshit. (calling off) Oh, and you tell that little jerk Maria I hope she chokes on her Me-damned nightingale! (to himself) Me H. Me!

THE VIRGIN MARY: That wasn't very nice, Jesus.

BABY JESUS: Quiet, woman, or I'll sic the Protestants on you.

THE VIRGIN MARY (muttering): Fucking Protestants...

That being said, I want this for Christmas Hannukah Kwanzaa Winter Solstice Chinese New Year.

I plan to be back soon to share my predictions for the coming year. In the meantime, I sincerely hope all of you enjoy the holiday season, my unseen but appreciated Cynickites*, whatever your beliefs or disbeliefs. You've made it a fun first year of my blog.

And by "fun" I mean "time-consuming and financially abortive," of course.

* Including, but not limited to, Big Load El Grande the Fourth Earl of Excelor, Sgt. Mellors, Dakota, Behnnie Quietly, Patelicious, Hucklebuck, Laura, Maria, Anonymous Jim, Mark, Tommy, and my silent minority: Christine, Angie, and the ludicrously-patient Mrs. T.C.I.

In closing, this year, let's put the God back in Godzilla.


Ann Coulter

Don't know who this blight on humanity is? Sorry to shatter your blissful ignorance (I really am envious), but I think it's important that you recognize her as quite possibly the dumbest pundit ever to emerge from the primordial ooze from whither slither pundits as a species.

Now, I like to think I'm very balanced when it comes to dispensing vitriol evenly amongst the right and the left, but occasionally there comes along a mouthpiece so ridiculous that he/she/it demands to be singled out and reviled for the walking refuse he/she/it is. Here is a video of Her Horsiness nattering on incoherently and being just generally -- and effortlessly -- obnoxious. Notice how that crazy-cool Brit Jeremy Paxman has to do absolutely nothing but sit back and let her dig own grave from the fertile earth of idiocy, arrogance, and colossal bitterness. I especially want to call your attention to the harpy's uncanny ability to speak without moving the corners of her mouth in a voice that emanates directly from out of her ass.

In her defense, however, Ann Coulter's existence serves one very important purpose: It allows us the unique opportunity to see what a praying mantis would look like with a thin layer of flesh stretched over its exoskeleton.

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Blogger Quietly said...

Cheese candy... The fuck?

I gave a can of soup and a box of mac 'n' cheese to two Unitarians hosting a food drive last month, so the Salvation Army can pretty much kiss my ass from here to next Christmas. Assuming the Unitarians don't catch me first again.

Ready to terrorize your other plush toys

3:44 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Have you thought of updating 'A Christmas Carol' with Scoorge staying happy and greedy? Capitalism at it's finest. Screw Tiny Tim.

Sgt Mellors

12:37 PM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

Actually, I heard tell of a very clever PBS special years ago starring the excellent Rowan Atkinson (of 'Mr. Bean' and 'Blackadder' fame) as a kindly milquetoast version of Scrooge. He was visited by three ghosts who showed him how much better his life would be if he was a selfish dick. Ingenious.

2:51 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I saw that version. It was a Blackadder episode. It was great.

Sgt Mellors

3:20 PM  
Blogger The Fourth Earl of Excelor said...

If you don't at least enjoy the music in the "Charlie Brown Christmas Special" then you are on drugs. Excuse the hyperbole; I just enjoy accusing people of being well medicated. I must admit that I do hate the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus", candy canes and the dreaded Southern Comfort egg nog.

12:10 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

By the way. Target banned the Salvation Army from standing in front of their stores about 3 years ago. They wanted to get rid of the "piercing, accusatory stares you so desperately try to avoid" you were talking about.
At least someone agrees about that.


12:37 PM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

IRONY ALERT: T.C.I. actually makes it a point to deposit a dollar in the Salvation Army bucket every time he passes one (which, thankfully, is not terribly often on account of his intense loathing of shopping as a rule).

(Hmm, when did I start referring to myself in the third person? No good can come of *that*...)

Anyway, I figure it's my one concession to decency and selflessness during the season of good will towards Myn.

But don't worry. I don't foresee that kind of thing becoming a habit.

1:41 PM  
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8:07 AM  

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