The holiday season is blending together so much nowadays, that pretty soon we’ll just combine the months of October, November and December into one chewy lump of Halloweensgivingstmas.
I realized something was amiss when I discovered that I was able to buy eggnog at the same time as Halloween candy. I love eggnog; I would freebase it if I could. But finding it in early October kinda throws off the internal clock.
Halloween seemed to be a little more low-key this year. Stores set up smaller displays with the intent of yanking them down as quickly as possible.Candy was more plentiful and less costly than I’d ever seen. One could enter one end of the aisle in perfect health, and need a toe amputated by the other end.
We bought a large amount of candy this year, knowing that we’d end up with most of it for ourselves, but we were wrong. We got the usual gaggle of Batmen, Disney Princesses, Henry Kissingers ringing our doorbell, but we also got a disturbing amount of older kids.
If you’re old enough to shave, you’re too old to trick-or-treat.
On to Thanksgiving! The average American is only thankful to have had enough foresight to save up a few hundred bucks to bail out Uncle Mike when he drinks his dinner (the Southern Comfort that was supposed to go into the cranberry sauce), and punches out cousin Lisa’s vaguely ethnic husband during an argument about socialism, Obamacare and the role of FOX News.
I’ve discovered the joys of having a girlfriend whose family celebrates Thanksgiving in a less traditional fashion. Instead of eating early and sleeping it off just long enough to wake up, eat pie, and get drunk, they just shift everything by several hours. They eat late, drink while they eat, nibble desserts right after, and then dance and sing until everyone passes out. It’s magical.
This year, we visited my mother. She lives in the country and basically resembles a porcupine, except instead of quills, she has guns. So for Thanksgiving this year, we had something that used to be alive, a few things that once grew in the ground, and a pie from Cracker Barrel. Then we all got drunk and she sang a Reba McEntire song about some sad trailer-park resident in roach-covered high-heels. I miss her already.
It didn’t take long this year for the Christmas music to trickle out. I swear, as soon as the calendar flipped over to Nov. 1, the radio stopped in the middle of “Monster Mash” and went right into
“Little Drummer Boy.”
There’s a few songs I don’t mind, like “Wonderful Christmas Time” by Paul McCartney, or “Shove This Up Yer Rear” by some crazy homeless guy who stood outside the store for a few hours. But then there’s songs like “Christmas Shoes” about a little boy trying to buy shoes for his dying mother, or “Dear Mister Jesus” which are letters to Jesus from children whose parents beat them. John
Denver’s lucky he’s already dead, because if I hear “Please Daddy (Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas)” ever again, I’d be tempted to dig him up and renew his pilot’s license.
And people wonder why the holidays see a spike in suicides.
There’s a special place in hell reserved for George Michael for writing and singing “Last Christmas.” He’ll be sharing it with anybody who ever covered the song, and they will only be able to communicate by using the lyrics.
Christmas itself is just an excuse for people to remember to spend money on things they can’t afford on people that they don’t even like in the first place. Kids spend all year talking up this action figure or that video game, only to be done with it by Dec. 28, and all they want now is the new version.
The thing I’m always most thankful for during the holidays is that it will eventually end. If it weren’t for the fact that there’s still work to be done, I’d board up the doors and windows as soon as the last trick-or-treat-er is poisoned and hide away until some time after the New Year. In the meantime, with my help, Jack Daniel’s distillery will not be going out of business any time soon.
