“If I could work my will . . . every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.” — Ebeneezer Scrooge, A Christmas Carol
I hate Christmas.
It’s nothing but a bunch of pissed-off people, irritably dashing about, overextending their credit buying crap that nobody needs. It’s raw wind, sleet and slush, wet shoes, frigid tiddlies and a gigantic natural display of death everywhere you look. ‘Tis the season of trampling crowds, incessant bell-ringing, gaudy displays of consumerism and pure, unfiltered hate for your fellow man.
Every year I say to myself, “This is the last year.” “I’m not fighting streaming mobs of drooling mouth-breathers to spend my hard-earned scratch on anyone but my damned self.” “I’m not tolerating the bell-ringing jackassery I have to fight past in every doorway.” “I’m going to kick Santa right in his cranberry-sized jollies the next time I see that fat bastard.”
NORAD tracks the sonofabitch across the North American continent. Can’t someone send a SAM up Rudolph’s furry nether regions?
“Christ, this goddam noise. Medicine is required.” — Spider Jerusalem, Transmetropolitan
Here we are again. I braved the idiot masses, I bought the goddamned stuff, I didn’t even spend very much money on myself. See, I am generous. All that’s left is hours of back breaking labor wrapping the bloody things up just so all that work can go to waste leaving you with more hours of back breaking labor cleaning the goddamned paper up.
I hate Christmas.
Wake me when it’s Saint Patrick’s Day.