I love Christmas – like, on a creepy cat lady level.
I celebrate it year-round. I keep a “Christmas Corner” in my house on display 365 days a year. It weirds out my friends.
People don’t know what to say. I’ve never been asked to babysit for anyone’s children. Not even once. I’ve seen neighbors leave their kids in a camel spider hive rather than ask the obese, sobbing man wearing the fuzzy pink nightmare costume to check in on them. C’est la vie.
Look, in someways I understand. The only people passionate about Christmas tend to be the very old, very young, zealots, and proprietors of Belk franchise locations. 37 year old, corpulent, gun-toting, childless cavemen don’t really fit the bill. It’s odd to stumble across one.
My brother had his bachelor party down on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. He and all his friends golf; I collect nutcrackers and quietly weep. While everyone was out doing rails of blow off the asses of the beer chicks in the golf carts, Big Shooter (me) was at the Christmas Mouse. It was April. Word is Bond.
Over supper that night I made the mistake of telling everyone on the trip where I was while they were out golfing. It was met with a sea of confused expressions inside of polo shirts and popped collars. These were grown men with several commas in their paychecks who were well-versed in the ancient Chinese martial art of “Give-a-high-end-escort-do.” I’m highly dubious of the notion that they pre-ordered holiday scented Yankee Candles in August; like I did.
— It wasn’t always this way…
My parents were divorced. The holidays were hardly traditional. What triggered my desire to have yuletide cheer launched out of a potato cannon into my asshole? I really couldn’t say. What I CAN say is this: I love it all.
I love these things. I must be repressing a molestation or something
The food, the smells, the music, the lights, the gifts, the weather; all of it. It’s a season you can actually feel in the air. It’s special. It’s something that we all, at the very least, acknowledge.
Trust me, I’m not pious, but I don’t mind the religious aspect. I’m no whore, but I don’t mind the secular parts either. All of it is comforting to me to the point that I actually find myself having animosity towards those who have animosity towards “Christmas Seasonal Creep.”
If the local dirt mall wants to wrap some shiny/dated Christmas decor around the light posts in their parking lot in October, who cares? You were only going into that Dollar Tree to try and score angel dust from the assistant manager, anyway. (you’re outed, by the way)
If Starbucks wants to offer their “All Inclusive Social Justice Holiday Devil Guns Transphobia Busting Kwanzarific Jizz Frappe” before Turkey day has passed? Mr/Mrs/Xe/Xor Barista, pour me a double!
I’ve been told this stance on this issue is hypocritical. Someone as incensed as I am about pumpkin beers being released during the summer has no business defending Christmas’ encroachment.
My response to this is as classy as it is simple; eat my ass.
Christmas has an expiration date, friendos. Once the 25th passes, it’s over Johnny. We get approximately two months for Autumn. By the time it’s the appropriate temperature to drink an Oktoberfest, the winter beers are on the shelves. These two things are incomparable. Like how much better my dog is than your dumb kids.
While I am drawing up my naughty list, allow me to include this particular “coal in the stocking” recipient: the guy that tells you his favorite Christmas movie is Die Hard.
You ask for miracles, I give you bro-dogg holiday groupthink
First of all, Die Hard isn’t a Christmas movie. It’s a movie that happens during Christmas. (Oh, and Gremlins as well – big difference)
Second, every asshole that utters this edgy, ground breaking statement does it the same way:
ME: “What’s your favorite Christmas movie?”
TRENT: “Bro, my favorite movie is Die Hard, bro.” [[prolonged stare in anticipation of me acknowledging the ironic brilliance of said answer from ‘Trent, the holiday movie Iconoclast’]]
People have been saying this shit for decades, but the people that say this shit are so wrapped up in themselves that they would never know that. It’s new to them, so it’s new.
You know what my favorite Christmas movie is? It’s a Wonderful Life. You know why? It’s fucking perfect, that’s why. That, and my wife almost left me once because she caught me jerking off while singing “Buffalo Gals Can’t Ya Come Out Tonight” to our dancing Santa. You married guys know what I’m talking about.
Without going all Dress Barn on your asses, I honestly think Christmas embodies something that we could use more of during the year — no, not peppermint bark. I can get type 2 diabetes by myself, thank you very much.
It’s the idea that; YES, your family is a pain in the ass. YES, it’s annoying to buy gifts for people that NEVER get you anything you would give a shit about. YES, my Venmo address is www.venmo.com/chaddukes.
But none of that matters!
You suck it up, drink some absinthe spiked eggnog, and put others in front of yourself. A little more Christmas during rush hour? A little more Christmas when you’re thinking about pulling out your checkbook to pay at the grocery store? A little more Christmas when your kid is running wild at the brewery?
Yeah, that sounds pretty merry and bright to me.