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Go Away, All Ye Faithful

Hey Christmas: Fuck off.

I mean that, Christmas. Go away. You're not wanted here. It's the first day after Thanksgiving and I'm already sick to the teeth of your smarmy, cheery, phony face.

You're everywhere -- in the malls, in my mail, on my TV. You're all over my TV. Already. One day after Thanksgiving -- a full month before you have any right to be on my mind -- and you've already planted your fat, ugly, red-and-green ass in the middle of my living room, all over my TV.

You wouldn't be so bad if you weren't so overbearing, Christmas, so omnipresent, so constantly in-my-face. If you lasted a few days or so -- a week tops -- I'd out-happy that little crippled dork, Tiny Tim. I'd spread cheer and sing merry tunes and be filled with the glowing love of the holiday season.

But, no, a week's not enough for you, is it? Hell, a month's not enough any more. When I saw my first Yuletide commercial, the week after Halloween, I knew you were going to hang around longer -- and with nastier results -- than an intestinal virus. You're one greedy holiday, Christmas.

Look, it's your business if you're intent on becoming a year-round event, but I resent the fact that I now must spend well over a twelfth of my viewing life suffering through the tiny hell known as Christmas TV.

Can't we do without the carpet-bombing of holiday ads, Christmas? A whole month dedicated to artificially happy people, doing artificially happy things? Wouldn't just putting a pillow case over our heads and demanding the cash be easier?

Yes, yes, I know. The whole of the American economy depends on us sheep obeying the commands of the television. We're supposed to trudge down to the Commerce Hut and fork over more money that we actually have because some guy with a messianic complex got himself in trouble with the authorities two thousand years ago. I get it. I'll do it, just like I'm supposed do. The Savior of Mankind told me to shop at Macy's.

But frankly, Christmas, I've already had all the colorful, skating Gap kids I can take. The thought of another month of that sort of exuberant perkiness makes me want to do something objectionable with a shotgun and innocent by-standers. I promise to buy the stuff if you just leave me alone.

Of course, at least the ads have the decency to pitch me some expensive version of personal contentment and then crawl back into their dank little holes. You're much worse, Christmas, when you start seeping into the shows.

Christmas episodes! Christmas specials! Christmas telethons! Oh, joy! Oh, rapture! Aw, shit...

I'm gritting my teeth, Christmas, at the thought of watching every freakin' character on every freakin' show on every freakin' channel learn the True Meaning of the Holiday Season. Again. Didn't it sink in from last year? Can't they just watch their own re-runs? Why do I have to go through it another time? I remember from before!

This time, Christmas, when Rudolph and his stop-motion friends come around, I'm going to be waiting with a hair dryer and some sterno. Mr. Heat Miser's got nothing on me, Christmas. Frosty's a puddle.

It's all so predictable, so tedious. Over the next four weeks, I just know I'm going to see an endless parade of tree trimmings and turkey cookings; wacky Santas doing un-Santaly things; unlikely miracles attributed to the magic of the season. Hell, I fully expect to see a Very Special Holiday Episode of "Crocodile Hunter," in which that insane Australian is gored by a reindeer.

So, damn you, Christmas; damn you and all the merriment you drag in your wake. I hate you. Go away. Get out of my face and get the hell off my TV.

And while you're at it, take that bastard New Year's with you.


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