Ok, I’m finally going to do it. I’m going to admit what I’ve been keeping a secret for many years now, partly due to embarrassment, partly due to fear of public reprisal, partly because I didn’t think others would understand. Yup, I’m coming out today…
Oh no, not that kind of coming out. I still like girls (err, ah, women). And no, I’m not a secret Repub, closet sports fan, clandestine lover of Disney World or Dancing with the Stars aficionado. I’m admitting that I hate Christmas. Yeah, all of it.
The story of Christmas is the first lie we tell our children. Then, as we watch their gullible little minds absorb all the requisite preposterous myths as fact, we, smug and self-assured for being so much smarter than they, take pictures of their adorable little faces as they put their trust in some stranger dressed in a ridiculous red suit and beg him to bring them all the materialistic garbage that we will later in life tell them do not make for true happiness. Yup, that’s what we do to our kids.
Then, as they grow and we teach them that the real meaning of Christmas is some alternative lie, (you know, Jesus and all that crap) the only difference between the two being that the second one has an entire book dedicated to it (or two books, if you count the Old Testament). So, we teach them the first lie, then, when they get too “smart” to believe that one, we say, “oh, no, no, no, no, you don’t believe THAT story, do you? But the NEW one we’re going to spend the rest of your life telling you is true. And we have this old-looking mass produced faux leather-bound book to prove it.”
We then spend every year complaining about how early the Christmas “season” starts (I was raised with Spring, Summer, Winter and Fall) while strategically planning our mission to Wal Mart on Black Friday to get a special deal on that 80″ TV that we just MUST have this year, lest the neighbors peek in our windows and see us watching the Food Network on a mere 42. We do this while complaining about rampant consumerism as we, insouciant at the irony, gleefully contribute to it.
We watch TV in the evenings to see obese, tube-topped women stand, pressed against the door at Target, awaiting the blow-out sale where everything is 150% off plus an added 10% bonus discount for only the first 30 seconds or until at least 10 customers are trampled so badly that the bloody floor makes people trip and slide into the XBox display. Cleanup on isle 3 indeed.
Then, victorious in our tracking, hunting and ultimate capture of our very own Playstation XPS5000 Violent Savage-Terrorist Killer Edition with Hyper Connectivity, instructions for hacking Iran’s nuclear facilities as well as the Deluxe Carry Handle, we grab a burger at Applebees and drive home, resplendent in the knowledge that we have once again achieved…