So, It's "Goddamn Christmas Time" Again. (Part I of who the hell knows?)

[LMNO]

Whoa.  That's a lot of headmeat.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Whoa.  That's a lot of headmeat.

I had to take extra sleep medication last night.

And I'm bored.

And now I have to go to a 2 hour meeting.  I hate you all.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

The Things^TM know, and prey upon your own personal weaknesses. The Things^TM have been with us since the beginning of time. They know the dark corners of the mind that we thought we surrendered through the process of evolution. They know the areas we choose to ignore, because we're better than that.

Observe, one man named Scott in the suburbs puts up his modest display of Christmas lights and a wreath on his house. The neighbor, Jim,  across the street does the same, plus a manger scene. The Things^TM whisper to Scott. They tell him that Jim is trying to outdo him. That Jim thinks he's a hot shit. Scott adds a manger scene and more lights.

The Things^TM go to Jim, and tell him, "look, Scott is trying to outdo you. He added to his display after you put up yours!" And Jim gets annoyed and says, "That arrogant prick thinks he's better than everyone! Fuck him!" and matches Scott's display, and adds a large star.

The Things^TM rub their hands together in delight, as they watch the situation escalate. Scott and Jim compete to see who can make a tackier Temple of Lights^TM, because whoever manages to do that is the Alpha Dog. Before you know it, you have this bizarre scene where Santa Claus and the Three Wise Men are chasing the Grinch away from the Manger while Frosty is curb stomping Scrooge.

The Things^TM love Christmas decorations. And they remind you to put them up one day earlier each year. You wouldn't want the neighbor to put them up before you.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Holy shit Roger!

[Eater of Clowns]

THAT'S A FUCK LOT OF HOLY

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

THAT'S A FUCK LOT OF HOLY

Christmas is a fuck of a lot of HOLY INSPIRATION.

I choose not to participate. For which I will be viewed as a horrible person or pathetic charity case.

I prefer "horrible person".

[Nephew Twiddleton]

The thing that people don't know about Santa Claus is that he's an actual guy, and he really does live up at the North Pole. There's a very good reason for that.

Wait a minute, Twid, you may be saying to yourself, there's no such thing as Santa Claus, just like there's no such thing as the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, a God who's both omnipotent and all-loving, or democracy. Well, yes and no. All of those things do exist, but not as they are portrayed by their representatives (you don't want to run into the Tooth Fairy. She's got large, well-dressed men named Salvatore working for her, and she'll come for your adult teeth too if you remind her that you exist.)

Santa Claus, like any good CEO has a good PR campaign, run through his subsidiaries, like Coca-Cola. Santa incidentally is one of the two guys who knows the secret formula btw, which is why he prefers an offering of milk. Really he'd like some bourbon, but he's gotta drive all night long and again, getting pulled over by the authorities for drunk sleighing would be bad publicity. But I digress. See, the Santa that we've all come to think of as a jolly, fat, grandfatherly type of man is not exactly who he says he is.

You see, Santa doesn't get paid for all of the free gifts he gives you if you've been good. Granted, the materials are provided for through various budgets throughout his vast empire, and it's not like Santa's in pauper country either. On the contrary, he's a multibillionaire. But we all know how billionaires like to cut costs wherever they can except for their income. Well, that's where the North Pole comes in. Slavery isn't exactly legal in most developed nations.

Have you ever seen a Norwegian midget? There's this stereotype that the Norse are all tall. That's not exactly so. Ever wonder why Scandinavia's suicide rate is abnormally high? What actually happens is that during adolescence, if it looks like a Scandinavian is not going to be very tall, they "commit suicide." This suicide is accomplished by a bit of chloroform, an abnormally light coffin at a funeral, an His Majesty turning a blind eye, thus holding up his end of the bargain. You'd think you'd be able to tell that there was something wrong with the elves. Well, they call it Stockholm Syndrome for a reason.

Now, you may be wondering what I meant about the various monarchs up North turning a blind eye.

Well, have you ever wondered just how Santa knows if you've been bad or good? I'm sure you've told yourself that that bit was only thrown in by parents to ensure proper behavior from you while you were growing up or otherwise no toys, or as is more likely slightly less toys than you would have gotten anyway. And while this is true to a degree, Santa does know if you've been bad or good. He's seen to it that not only are his own cameras all over the place, but that cameras are a cool gift to have. Everyone wants a camera, and he'll make sure that there's one under your tree at some point, so you can take all the pictures of you having a good old time that you ever want. But remember they're his cameras, and you don't even have to upload them. He's got his own software built into the thing. Santa knows if you've been bad or good, but the reason you always get presents regardless of how much of an awful shit you've been throughout the year is because he doesn't particularly care. Your bad or good is a potential source of income, to the right bidder or the right government.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Holy shit Roger!

STOP ME BEFORE I KILL ME AGAIN.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Holy shit Roger!

STOP ME BEFORE I KILL ME AGAIN.

I WILL DO NO SUCH THING.

OR KILL ME.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Holy shit Roger!

STOP ME BEFORE I KILL ME AGAIN.

I WILL DO NO SUCH THING.

OR KILL ME.

Me first.  I've had dibs since 1981.

[Richter]

I mean, if nice old granny was cooking something different for Christmas dinner this year, and when you tried to peek into the cauldron to see what it is, she gave you a depressed skull fracture with her ladel. 

So, not unlike my actual granny, God rest her angry, angry soul.

Kesselhobogooking, old gramma used to call that.  Poking around the pot too see if it was done when you weren't doing any other cooking.  Grandad was hte only who could be a kesselhobogooker and live to tell.  We all knew why.  Granny chose him because she like him.  The rest of us were just fallout from that.

She never decorated either.  Well, never more than was practical.

There was a wreath.  The smell of the conifer, the holy, and the herbs kept the wargs away.  Sure, they'd smell it all in the forests ANYWAYS, but something about the arrangement they couldn't cotton,

There would be mistletoe.  "remember, it stalks us all."  Granny said.  "Stand still too long, and it might take a liking to you.  Tarry under it with your love, and you may get up with a bush rooted in your bung.  Now, what does that make you call to mind?"

There would be gifts too.  Not things you wanted, always.  Things you needed.  OR wished you didn't

"Here's the socks to keep your feet warm.  Of course dear, they ARE warm now, you're right.  These are for feet running in terror through the night and the damp.  You're no sport if your feet fall of.  That's a bad end to a hunt."

"Such a nice  red coat.  It suits the little one.  So easy to spot..."

"I do hope you enjoy digging with that shovel.  Dig nice enough, and we'll have space to put the whole family!"

So mom and dad would sit on the couch and drink and drink, for granny kept nog, and toddies, and mullings poured out.  They never seemed worse for it though.  Maybe she never mixed it strong.  Maybe, despite the dedicated pulls at their mugs, they could never down enough to blunt the horror. 

[The Good Reverend Roger]

The worst thing about Christmas is that I'm in Tucson.  I mean, in Chicago, there was snow.  It looked like Christmas, so you could almost fool yourself into going along with it to some degree.  It was wearing the uniform, so to speak, it LOOKED right, so your brain was more inclined to take a vacation.

Not so, here.  Here it is just another grey and babyshit yellow day in the desert.  It looks like a toxic waste dump, not some winter wonderland.  Your brain isn't ready for Christmas.  Problem is, the snowbirds can't adjust to this fact, so they spin in circles.  Their diurnal (sp?) cycles are out of kilter.  This makes them crazy.  They are in fact so crazy that they occasionally insist that other people (ie, me) MUST be cheerful WITH them.

This typically doesn't end well.  Yeah, I'll show you holiday cheer, you wizened up pay'bucker.  I'll show you good will toward man until you SHIT YOUR PANTS.  Santa isn't bringing me coal this year, he's bringing me a fucking RESTRAINING ORDER.  And I shall walk right through it and give you a little something for your Goddamn stocking.

See ya in Disneyland, assholes.

[Richter]

Winter in Vermont looked like Christmas.  Trees, and snow.  That antiseptic smell of a nice winter morning, the low sifting sound as the snow came down, or the exciting blue pale of the moonlight. 

Winter in Boston looked like Christmas.  Newbury Street or Downtown Crossing with the lights up, clean white snow before it went February dirty gray, and the music making you feel like it was the NICE part of the 1950's again, not the sort of city Art sang about in "The Boxer"

In Providence the wind howls through the buildings like the dry wind through dead ziggurats.  It comes war now and again like the shoggoth rolled over in the canal and cut a fart.  There is no place for the clean New England winter here.  There is no grand thoroughfare for the lights and cheer like in Boston.  There is only the cyclopean twisting of the odd city plan.  Hell, maybe if I can get up hill without busting my ass I can get to one of the College hill bars, warm and welcoming, bereft of the usual younguns, finally properly partway deserted for a quiet drink, or a random chat if I feel like that.  Then it is back out into the desserted night.  Once again alone in the unoccupied ruins under the pale diffusion of cold stars.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

I mostly get to avoid Christmas, up until the middle of December.  Someone tried to put up a fake cardboard Christmas Tree in our office, but a, uh, tragic accident occured and it had to be thrown in the bin. 

Part of the benefit of working from home, in an environment with lots of people from a non-Christian background is that there is no real pressure to put up decorations, no endless and tiresome Christmas songs during the daily commute, and no office party I'm expected to attend.  Instead, by this time next week 90% of my shopping will be done, and a few days before Xmas, I will head to my parents place, eat too much, drink too much, exchange gifts and get a couple of weeks of good sleep without any disturbances.

You see, the thing is, I don't necessarily dislike Christmas.  I'm not even adverse to the tiresome "commercialization of Christmas" crap of the wannabe Naomi Kleins of postmodernity.  I just want to like it on my own terms, my usually cool and understated fashion, instead of having it shoved down my throat and forced to wear a stupid grin while I warble on about how "this is the most wonderful time of year".  The social expectations, the baggage, is what bores me.  As with most things, now I come to consider it.

But anyway.  The point is, I'm going to avoid it for as long as seems necessary, and then engage in it entirely on my own terms.  And I will enjoy it.  And I might just have a small, mocking laugh for those who pontificate about the consumer frenzy of Xmas (because, you know, Christmas is special) or those who stress themselves to the point of nervous collapse over the whole thing.

Problem:  Americans are very, very aggressive with their "good cheer" and all that shit.

It's very hard to enjoy the season without committing actual mayhem.

The problem with what happened to Christmas is that we no longer have a proper Halloween. See, one of the things that those headhunting Celts that gave us that was a good idea was the idea of a holiday completely devoted to horrible shit, and celebrating that which dark in our nature. A cutting loose if you will, at the end of the harvest. But we commercialized both Halloween and Christmas. Commercializing a holiday seems like a natural thing in a capitalist society, and indeed, it's usually not a harmless thing. The commercialization of Christmas should be expected.

But the commercialization of Halloween had an unintended effect. We cut its balls off and made it about kids getting candy and women dressing up as "slutty [insert any occupation in here, including celibate clergy]" and men as some sort of walking pun and/or douchebag. No. Halloween is no longer a holiday for the Things^TM. Whether the SpiritWorld^TM actually exists or not is irrelevant. The Things^TM are very very real. And we gave them a holiday where we gave them their due. And then we took it away from them. So now the Things^TM show up on the doorstep, looking for their own brand of Tricks and Treats that don't involve cute little children sifting through to get a peanut butter cup instead of one of those weird candies that always populate the bowl at the end of the night. And they don't get them. The Things^TM get restless, and need more for propitiation.

They see us glut ourselves on turkey and cold mashed potatoes, and they can smell the tension mounting in us, too. For we need to appease the Things^TM as much as they need us to. They lurk just behind the doors of the Walmart, taunting us, daring us to come in, to smash down the door. They entrance us with their promises of sales.

They cackle, and ride the waves of insanity flooding out of you when you hear that Paul McCartney song play for the first time in 11 months, because you know, hate it as much as you want, it will be stuck in your head for the next month.

Christmas time is no longer a season to celebrate peace and goodwill. No. The Things^TM need their blood orgy, and they will take it in any form they can trick out of us.

OOOOOOOH

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Winter in Vermont looked like Christmas.  Trees, and snow.  That antiseptic smell of a nice winter morning, the low sifting sound as the snow came down, or the exciting blue pale of the moonlight. 

Winter in Boston looked like Christmas.  Newbury Street or Downtown Crossing with the lights up, clean white snow before it went February dirty gray, and the music making you feel like it was the NICE part of the 1950's again, not the sort of city Art sang about in "The Boxer"

In Providence the wind howls through the buildings like the dry wind through dead ziggurats.  It comes war now and again like the shoggoth rolled over in the canal and cut a fart.  There is no place for the clean New England winter here.  There is no grand thoroughfare for the lights and cheer like in Boston.  There is only the cyclopean twisting of the odd city plan.  Hell, maybe if I can get up hill without busting my ass I can get to one of the College hill bars, warm and welcoming, bereft of the usual younguns, finally properly partway deserted for a quiet drink, or a random chat if I feel like that.  Then it is back out into the desserted night.  Once again alone in the unoccupied ruins under the pale diffusion of cold stars.

Balls.  I've seen Providence, and it's EXACTLY how everyone sees Christmas when they close their eyes.  A smallish city in rolling hills.  Snow.  A fucking weirdass bronze pineapple for no fucking reason on Federal Hill.  Angry Italians.  Grey slush.  Bad drivers.  Rage.  Hate.  Hipsters singing Christmas Carols in shitty lava lamp bars.  Senseless violence.  The world's worst Cornish pasty.

Ah, the holidays.