Christmas? Kissm'ass.

Lemme tell ya something about Christmas.

Xmas music. Holy fuck. This stuff drives me insane. I swear to God there's only five or six songs, and then every 'musical artist' since the dawn of fucking time has taken time out of their busy schedules to whip up their own friggin' version. Which, in and of itself, isn't that bad, but when the motherfuckers who like Xmas music start playing this shit starting the middle of November, then it's out of goddamned control. In my experience, these people are the sort of mercilessly cheerful, Xanaxed to the eyeball nutjobs who crochet their own toilet seat covers and firmly believe that Elvis was Jesus and vice versa. You know the ones I mean. They wear the reindeer/Santa/Elf hat with the Mistletoe/jingle bells/flashing Grand Mal lights, wish you Merry Christmas/Joyous Noel/Season's Greetings with the kind of forcefulness you'd generally only find in guys who spend their time carving Swastikas into their foreheads. They're on their third copy of the christmas cd where cat meow Deck the Halls and Silent Night because they play it year round. I'm talking Fruitcake eating, Eggnog swilling, Mistletoe carrying Militant Christmas-ites. They work mostly at Walmart, but can also be found places like Penningtons, Spensers and K-Tel Records and Tapes. I hate them. But mostly because Christmas jingles get stuck in my head like they've been cemented in there with Krazy Glue, and they are the prime source of contagion.

Seriously. One minute of the First Noel and I'm fucking stuck. It's me, hollering out Jingle Bells and Here Comes Santa Claus at the top of my lungs for the rest of the day. And I sing intentionally badly, because not only can I not sing, I sing poorly naturally. We're talking multi-frequency cat fight. We're talking Peter Brady going through puberty bad. And the weirder the look, the louder I do it, and let me tell you something, when you sing loud enough that you can actually drown out a mixer the size of a luxury sedan mixing two and a half thousand kilos of crud, that's loud. The only thing seperating me from the aforementioned Christmas Fucktards is the silly goddamn hat, which frightens the living hell out of me.

So if the next time you see me, I'm wearing a flashing pin that says 'Kiss Me, I'm one of Santa's Elves', am dressed head to toe in bright red felt and singing Jingle Bell Rock on a corner, desperately trying to get the money up to feed my Misteltoe jones, be kind, drop a dime.