Happy Fucking Holidays

A lot of people might be inclined to think that I am Anti-Christmas, and they aren't exactly wrong. There are few things I find pleasant about the holiday, and it is layered underneath heaps and heaps of peppermint scented bullshit. Sorry, reindeer shit, if we are keeping it festive. Let's dive in to some of that fecal matter and see what ridiculous red and green colored nonsense we can unearth.

I'm not a big fan of lying to children, mostly because children suck. They deserve to know about the shitty truths that artfully compose the clumsy human existence. You get like, 13 years of being carefree, then the rest of your life you are stuck paying bills for the things that serve you only a little. You will resent everything that has ever meant anything to you. This all happens around the quarter life crisis, and boy, it does not get better from there. Holidays have this weird, almost requisite feature, of lying to children. Most of them involve creepy adults or anthropomorphic creatures giving them gifts and candy. This is particularly fascinating when you consider that we beat it in to children's heads not to talk to, take anything from, or even acknowledge strangers. But, apparently, unless it is a designated day of the year then that shit is totally legit. In fact, leave out some food and invite some fat fuck in to your house via chimney. People. This is how repressed memories start. To be fair it isn't just Santa I'm looking at, it's also the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Christopher Columbus (homeboy had a penchant for breaking in to places that didn't belong to him). Pretty soon we are all going to be telling the little Timmy's and Tonya's that the guy walking around with a big ass branch and smelling of gin is Arbor Day Man and that if you sit on his lap he has to go speak to his probation officer.
On a more serious note, I recently heard this great classist perspective about the concept of Santa. Think about when you were in grade school. The week following Christmas indicated, beyond any doubt, who was naughty and who was nice. By perpetuating this idea that this mythical, but very real for children, being delivers gifts one night a year to good little boys and girls. It shows the have-not's that maybe they weren't good enough and when they got a sweater and some socks instead of a new bike. It isn't about whose parent's have money and whose don't on December 25th. It's about this jolly, geriatric man who wants to give you things, and if you receive less, you are valued less. And that, my friends, will fuck kids up for life.

Moving on, did you know the Salvation Army is SUPER DUPER against gays? The Salvation Army is practically in bed with Santa and his side chick. The cadence of cheap bells is a Christmas carol all it own. It even comes with its own holly jolly hate speech. A few years ago a high ranking representative from the organization suggested that members of the LGBT community should be put to death. This year a leaked internal documented suggested that "unmarried" (i.e. those big scary gays) bell ringers and other volunteers and/or employees should remain celibate. Maybe this year, instead of dropping some pocket change and lint in to those red kettles you can walk right past them and give your money to a shop keeper in exchange for goods. It's the Christmas spirit! No longer do you have to feel guilty for pretending to talk on your phone as you walk past those bell ringers.

Source:
Celibacy and Death

Running fresh off that last paragraph, let's talk about that obligation to give. No,  I'm not suggesting that consumerism is one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I'm talking about that urge we feel to give people we don't care two shits about some sort of token of our feigned appreciation at this time of year. We feel obligated to carry out such acts in detriment to our own bank accounts. Don't do that. I give gifts because I want to give gifts. Furthermore, I give gifts whenever the mood strikes, not just because some "virgin" pooped out a baby, allegedly, a while back and as a result I need to give everyone within a 2 mile radius a Starbuck's gift card. By this point, my blog should have clearly indicated that I fucking hate feeling obligated to do anything. I believe in free will and the ability to make my own god damn decisions. And if I think you are a platter of turds then I will certainly not feel required to give you a box of cookies to reward your mere fucking existence in the month of December.

I can tell you almost the exact moment my loathing for the key components of Christmas began: when I started working at Target. I worked exactly one Black Friday at Target and one Black Friday at Gap. That was more than enough for me to solidify my plans for total desecration of the human population once I become World Empress. Unless you have worn a company assigned name tag on Black Friday, then you have no idea how fucking insane middle-aged white women are at 6 a.m. No longer are they riding high off those 4 (5 when you weren't looking) glasses of pinot, and they are still pretty pissed off that no one laughed at their vaguely racist joke during dinner. Pair those two explosives with an inexplicable sense of entitlement and self-worth, and you have enough Coach bag fueled fire power to destroy every hapless sales clerk they encounter. The people who wait outside of stores on Black Friday are the precise reason this holiday was probably Hitler's favorite. Nothing says I don't care about anyone but myself and the aftermath of my broken condoms quite like asking everyone in retail to give up their holiday to serve your superiority complex. What makes these people even more charming is when they have the gall to say, "I can't believe they have you guys here this early!" Holy shit, go consume an entire gallon of dicks, please. And while you have your mouth full, let me inform you that the gifts you buy your little shit-bird children will only stave off their resentment for you for a maximum of two weeks.

In all actuality, I'm not trying to ruin Christmas for anyone. I am just brushing aside the tinsel to make it clear that Christmas sits on a throne of downtrodden and broken souls. Not mine though, I don't have a soul. So continue to celebrate with your loved ones, shove a candy cane up your ass if that's your sort of party, but don't you dare act like Christmas isn't a big, tedious, load.