The Tragic Descent into Holiday Hell

Why am I writing about my unbridled hate for the holidays? Because those stupid ass fucks in charge of advertising have begun the assault on our senses. Slime eating vultures, they need to be slowly lowered into a cauldron of bubbling wassail and melted Advent candles.

Yes, I realize the holidays aren’t about Jesus or his birthday or that old tired trope of “peace on earth good will towards men.” That doesn’t happen once on this tired, soon-to-be-turned-into-a-piece-of-charcoal planet. Okay, maybe a gang member in Baltimore will put a festive bow on the faceless corpse he left behind. Or a nice wreath made out of bullet casings, syringes, and crack vials.

So why do we even celebrate? Or pretend to celebrate? Is it because we’re about to enter the long, shitty, fucking bitch ass winter? Maybe. I know that it’s fun to look at your credit card balance while massive sheets of ice slam into your house and the furnace implodes.

Oh wait, after you get past Christmas you have New Year’s Eve. I am 47. Every fucking New Year’s Eve in my life has been worse than getting Ebola on your nuts.

Case in point: last year I was drinking at a neighborhood party while helping the host grill. And then I did shots of Gatorade vodka. My wife arrived and she was trying to talk to me and I could not form words. So, true to form, she assumed the worst and thought I had done heavy, heavy drugs. (I wish.) We went home and had one of those drunk logic circular arguments in front of her niece and her niece’s friend.

It was awesome. So, when she was done, I left and went back to the party and smoked a cigar while sitting on a lawn chair in the neighborhood’s common area. According to my neighbor, I had a bottle of rum next to me and a mug of beer. Who says the male ego is destructive? I chalked it up for a win. The next day, I barfed while my in laws were over for brunch.

This post has now become a rant against the upcoming holiday season. Fine. Let’s dig in further.

Family. Yes, it’s now fucking family time. Oh boy, oh boy! I must split time between all the family members. And everyone is Italian and obviously, YOU HAVE TO BE WITH US EVEN THOUGH WE FUCKING SEE YOU EVERY GODDAMN SUNDAY!

Jesus tap dancing Christ, this is the worst part. I want my kids to stay home, play with their Christmas toys and enjoy the fucking day. I want to stay home, play with my wife, drink bourbon, and enjoy the fucking day. It’s not going to happen. And I get surly and angry and semi-drunk. At least with the global warming you can stand outside and smoke a decent cigar without having your nuts shrivel to the size of a sunflower seed.

Here’s another gripe: Christmas cartoon specials. In my day, these were scheduled once a year and if you missed out, you were fucked. Even though you’d seen The Grinch and Charlie Brown a bunch of times. These days, my kids can view them on YouTube. They will never know the unbridled joy of seeing that CBS twisting “Special” logo, accompanied by an awesome Hawaii 5-0 drum solo. It used to give me mini-boners when I was a wee lad.

After the holidays are over, and the emotional, psychological, and physical wreckage has been cleared, you’re about 10 pounds heavier and deep in debt. Football is at the ass end of the season, and that rotting bag of pig carcasses and roiling pus known as Donald Trump will assume the presidency of these United States. (Maybe we’ll see a few good riots.)

Fuck the holidays. I’m burning down every tree, wreath, candy cane, and Santa’s sleigh that I can find. I will take a sledge hammer to train gardens, Salvation Army collection pots, snowmen, and anyone listening to fucking Johnny Mathis. (This does not include my mother. She is a saint and values Christmas more than I value drugs and bourbon.)

The holidays can eat shit and die. Christmas Eve will find me sitting on the roof of the Fozz Compound, armed with a sniper rifle and scope, waiting for that fat fucker and his snotty ass “look at me I have a different nose” reindeer to come flying across the sky.

This Made Me Happy

My son’s football team won the championship and had a perfect season. He is the next JJ Watt. He will skip college and go right to the pros. I will retire on his earnings. But the twist: he gets drafted by the Shittsburgh Squealers and I have to disown him.