Ho, ho, frikkin ho!

’Tis the season to be… well… running around like a frenzied chicken while you try to figure out who you still need to buy presents for and what the hell you should get those people. Not to mention wrapping the things and shipping them off while there’s still a snowballs chance in hell that they’ll get to where they’re going in time. I think that date passed sometime last week.

All this you have to do accompanied by the sound of cheery Christmas music and cheery Christmas lights and santas of all shapes and sizes yelling “ho, ho, ho” at you. This is the only time of the year when a man can get away with shouting that after a gal without getting pummelled by either her handbag or her boyfriend. You also have to tolerate the presence of screaming two-year, who are all out in force during the holiday season.

There was an interview in the paper the other day with a reverend something-or-other who was upset that the purpose of Christmas had gotten lost somewhere along the way. Most likely, somewhere along the way to the mall. Santa, he said, was clearly a false idol and he wanted everyone to explain to their children that Santa was a false god who made people sick and broke apart happy homes. That’s what he taught his own children when they were growing up.

I’m sure his kids could throw a tantrum to dwarf all other tantrums in the history of tantrums, both past and future, whenever you took them to the mall with all its Christmassy decorations. A few years back, my mum decided she was a lesbian and so my parents got divorced. We had several cardboard boxes of decorations.

Anyways, I’m going away. See you all next year.

Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve been tagged. I now have to pick up the book I’m currently reading, go to page 56 and jot down the fifth line. Iiiits… *drumroll*… “It wasn’t nearly as easy to dance with Charlie.”

Fascinating.

Satan's.... Uhm... SANTA's little helpers

I love when the Christmas decorations all come up around town. Especially the ones in the mall. They’re all shiny, soo shiiiiiiny. After having been awoken by the sounds of loud screechy sex from upstairs, I figured I’d go check it out. The decorations that is, not the screechy sex. The less I know about that, the better, really.

The first thing that you notice is the enormous Santa hanging on the wall right next to the escalators. First you see his boots and his gigantic…uhm…pelvic area, then comes the belly, arms and when you start to near the top of the stairs, you're always relieve to see that he's got a head. As I was staring up at Chris Cringle’s private bits, I could hear the merry music of the season pouring out from the record store.

Every year the record companies spew out CD’s with various A- and B celebrities singing Christmas songs. If you play them backwards you’ll probably hear the voice of Satan commanding you to stock up on Coca Cola products, or something.

This time of the year, I become extremely partial to everything with the word “Christmas” written on it. I buy Christmas soda, Christmas cookies, Christmas notebooks and the list goes on and on. I have a Christmas calendar, of course. Normally, when there’s chocolate in the house, I attack it all with such feverish glee you’d think I’d just been released from a work camp in Siberia. Are there still work camps in Siberia, by the way? Probably not.

Hey, did you know what I just noticed? SANTA is and acronym for SATAN. I wonder what that means? Probably that I have too much time on my hands.