Click HERE for a list of the multinational, multicultural, multiracial, multicolored, progressive, enlightened, forward-thinking, backstabbing coalition of empowered people who assist me in the creation and maintenance of this website.
jimgoad.net :: kris kringle's kriminal kapers
I Hope You Have Such a Great Christmas, Your Fucking Head Explodes!
"And so," as John Lennon sang before eating four cold December bullets, "this is Christmas."
"And so," I ask in return, "what?" So fucking what? It's supposed to be Jesus's birthday, but I don't see anybody buying him any presents.
I will cook a goose tomorrow. A headless, mercilessly slaughtered goose. I will eat its flesh. I will teach my son how to eat its flesh. And then, possibly, I will nap. And that will comprise the entirety of my Christmas "celebration."
Hundreds of drunk assholes will die in car accidents this weekend, and I will not cry.
Thousands of babies will go hungry and toyless, and I will not care.
Bitter, morose nobodies will look back over their accomplishments during the past year, and I will not bother to listen to a single detail.
You have nothing to celebrate, and even if you do, I don't want to hear about it.
But as a demonstration of my boundless, needless, always unsolicited generosity, I'm tossing you two roasted chestnuts from Christmases past. Dine well upon them, my young, confused, imaginary cyber-friend—dine well.
CHRISTMAS EVE, WAITING FOR GRANDPA (1989)
A turkey's burnt carcass seasoned the dry, crackling air. Dad sipped egg nog and looked at his instruction manual. Winking at the kids, Mommy cut cookie dough into identical beige figurines.
Jolly cotton-cloud music floated from the phonograph. For one night a year, Johnny Mathis brought all the races together.
Friends called and offered cozy wishes. In furry footies, the little 'uns squealed at the blinking lights and talking plastic animals. Mommy flushed proudly as Dad crowned the tree with a flame-retardant angel.
It was time to wrap the present.
Dad rummaged through the closet, producing a long tube of gold foil and black velvet. He cut a strip of the pretty paper into a big square. Mommy then nimbly camouflaged Grandpa's surprise. She ran a scissor blade across shiny ribbon, making it recoil into tight, decorative curlicues. To everyone's delight, baby Gretchen applied the Scotch tape. The family looked out of the dark, snowy window and agreed: A MACHINE GUN is the greatest gift of all.
A VERY DUFFY CHRISTMAS (2005)
This holiday season marks the Silver Anniversary since the most dysfunctional Christmas scene I've ever witnessed. Somewhere deep in the dirty-brick Philly row-home jungle lived the Duffy family, which consisted of a whiskey-besotten li'l leprechaun of a dad, a silent mom, and a half-dozen or so spindly, rat-haired sons, each one more fucked-up than the next.
And as we were all enjoying a lively Yuletide party, Daddy Duffy began quarreling with one of the Baby Duffys. Within seconds, Dad charged his son and tackled him straight into the Christmas tree, knocking it flat and shattering ornaments onto the floor.
I'll never forget the drunken Irish grimace on Daddy Duffy's face as he plowed his son over and through the pretty sparkly tree. Dad was reality and der Tannenbaum was a sad, hopeless wish waiting to be crushed.
Jesus was born merely to be crucified. Fuck you and yours this holiday season.