Sunday, December 04, 2005
What To My Wond'ring Eyes Should Appear
It's December now, so I suppose I can't complain anymore about the decorations and the music in the stores anymore. The Christmas Season is officially upon us.
Normally this is where someone of my milk (I bet you were expecting me to say "ilk", but I don't like that word... it's too short and fails to fully grasp the uniqueness of my being, which is why I prefer "milk" which is a contraction of the phrase "m(otherfucking)-ilk"... as you can see, far more appropriate) would drone on and on and on endlessly about the tedium of it all, how we all had the same Christmas in 1955 and keep spinning it back over and over again every year, each time a little earlier, and how it's all so commercialized and cynical and how it's all some great big coverup, man, of oppressive Christianity grafting on to and co-opting the pagan Winter Solstice celebrations with all their patriarchal bullshit, which means instead of celebrating with blood sacrifice, peyote and weed, we have Toys R Us and mistletoe, which you can't even bake into a decent brownie.
But no, not me. I'm not that way. I actually like to be out there amongst the garland and the wreaths and the carolers. OK, maybe not that far. I can't fucking abide carolers. What's with the goddamn Victorian garb on those people? If there's no acoustic advantage to singing outside while wearing a top-hat, then the only other conclusion I can reach is that it's a global conspiracy handed down through the generations developed specifically to annoy me.
Either that or it's a ploy to disguise the fact that anyone who would stoop to squeezing their fat, pointy asses into outfits like that out in public is perhaps ot-nay oo-tay ight-bray in the first place. By Victorian-izing themselves, they limit the repertoire of songs they can select from to the handful that survive that were composed before 1900. It seems quaint and "period authentic" but really it's because their tiny, bonnet-bearing heads can't handle the subtle nuances of "Jingle Bell Rock". If even exposed to "Christmas Wrapping" by the Waitresses, they would swallow their slightly oversized tongues and die. Basically they're like Civil War re-enacters, just as sadly risible, except without the guns and thus easier to mock.
Otherwise, I would say I very much enjoy the general festive yuletide atmosphere. Mostly I think it has to do with the overall success of my deprogramming. Somehow, it turns out that 17 years in my Skinner box had the unintended side-effect of implanting some trigger-words and phrases into my head with tragic consequences. For instance, every time I would hear Bing Crosby's "White Christmas", I would murder a squirrel. Generally I would black out whenever the song started, but invariably I would wake up at the base of a tree somewhere, all scratched on my arms and face, surrounded by a grisly pool of blood, fur and acorns.
But like my therapist says, there's nothing a strict regimen of alternating sensory-deprivation and electro-shock therapy can't undo. It seems a little harsh at times, like trying to remove a splinter with a pick-axe, but the way I see it: even if you lose a finger, no more splinter. It's like the same thing, only with the human brain.
Like a lot of people, though, I do get a little melancholy over the holidays, only for me it's because I recognize the great tragic truth that eventually it will all end. The gifts will all be opened, the trees will all have long since burst into flame, the drunk uncle will have tried to sodomize you with a turkey leg "for old time's sake", the holiday potpurri will have all been eaten and "The Ball" will drop in Times Square, killing seven and injuring 84.
And then what will we have? Crappy easy-listening '80s music back in the grocery stores, retailers recovering their holiday-specific price-slashing mental instability, motorists giving you the finger after cutting you off instead of the traditional holiday "Merry Fucking Christmas!"...
And worst of all, the squirrels will forget the fear and return to mocking me from the safety of their suburban woodland homes, just hording and squeaking and self-grooming, laughing and frolicking in a world denied Bing Crosby.
This po-ho-host on the Narcissus Scale: 9.h0