Pointless Yuletide Reflections
“I love you baby,” Shelby-Ann Clemmons told her big brother Bobby-Roy Clemmons. They were standing on the curb outside the Jefferson Davis Dixie Diner & Tobacco Emporium, Bobby-Roy’s rusty yellow ’86 Dodge Daytona parked in the handicap spot in front of them.
“I love you too Shelby-Ann,” Bobby-Roy said and pulled her close to him, libidinously pressing his lips to hers. “Now let’s go kill Santa Claus.”
Well Christmas is upon us one again – time for toys and time for cheer motherfuckers! Hard to believe I haven’t made a new post to this silly blog since May and I wrote only one other new post this year! I can’t say I’ve ever really been a prolific blogger as I’ve always felt that one should actually have something to say before saying something. Perhaps I should get over that hang-up or just quit blogging altogether. Seems my destiny is the former as I’m now writing a meaningless post that is conspicuously absent of inspiration or point. While I actually do have a few ideas kicking around in this foggy brain of mine, I’ve neither the energy or motivation to convert them into prose at this point. Still, I feel like writing something so I shall type my way through the haze and through the malaise with no idea as to where it will go or what I will say.
It’s Christmas time again, as I’ve mentioned, and everywhere I go Christmas music is playing. I really hate Christmas music. I’m not sure what it is about it that annoys me so much. Maybe it’s those damn bells that are in every song. Why does every Christmas song have to have fucking bells in it? Jingle, jangle, ring-ring-ring! Fuck you Burl Ives! Fuck you Andy Williams! And fuck you Mannheim Steamroller! Actually, I’m not sure Mannheim Steamroller uses bells in their music but I still want to say fuck you to them. And to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra too! Okay, so I over-generalized. Not every Christmas song has bells in it! I don’t believe there are any bells in “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”. It is, however, about getting an underage girl drunk during a snow storm and taking advantage of her, which is probably worse. I’m not actually sure what this song has to do with Christmas, other than that providing alcohol to minors and statutorily raping them apparently becomes acceptable during the joyous time each year that precedes the coming of our Lord. But anyway.
“White Christmas” – that one doesn’t have bells in it either. Or maybe it does, I just it missed it. I’m not sure why anyone would ever dream of a white Christmas with its implications on holiday travel and assorted other dangers and all. Seems like more of a nightmare than a dream to me. Whenever I hear Bing Crosby crooning the words I think about a family of four driving to grandma’s house when they skid on the snow and slide into the oncoming traffic lane, hitting another car, causing both to spin out of control until they hit a tree and a sign post respectively. Bloodied passengers, in various states of dismemberment, eject through the windshield, landing in the pure white snow and staining it crimson. I also think of an old man shoveling his walkway when he drops his shovel, clutches his chest, and falls into the snow, convulsing until he dies from cardiac arrest as his grandkids cry out “No grandpa! No!” Then there’s the children innocently playing on a hillside when an avalanche consumes them, leaving behind all those new toys with which they will never get the chance to play. That’s your White Christmas assholes! I’m so glad I now live in a part of the country where it doesn’t snow, except on the rarest of occasions.
Not everyone around here seems to share those sentiments, however, and many have apparently bought into Bing’s sugar-coated description of winter’s vengeance. Thus every moron and his/her fucking mother was at one of the local outdoor malls last weekend for the so-called “Snow Day” they had. They advertised it as some sort of magical winter wonderland where you could build a snowman, go for a toboggan ride, and make angels in the snow. In reality it was a patch of shaved ice produced by a big Snoopy Snowcone Machine-like device situated just outside of the Barnes & Noble. Snow it was not! Nonetheless there were lots of ill-behaved little brats reveling in the opportunity to chuck ice balls at everyone within their reach. Those who weren’t hurling ice balls were running to their parents with tears streaming down their cheeks after having been smashed in the face by one or more of the frozen projectiles flying about. Brings to mind the rock fights we used to have when I was young.
Whatever happened to rock fights anyway? Kids don’t seem to throw rocks at each other nowadays. Le sigh.
You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not pout
I’m telling you why
‘CAUSE I’LL GET THE MARINES AFTER YOU!!!
Sorry, just having a childhood flashback – we used to sing that in mockery of Richie Donnelly’s dad. The elder Donnelly, an avid reader of Soldier of Fortune magazine, was a former Marine who served in ‘Nam and loved every fucking minute of it. Convinced that a Red Dawn-like scenario was imminent, he began stockpiling weapons in preparation for the coming invasion and encouraged everybody else in the neighborhood to do the same. I tell you, it broke that motherfucker’s heart when they finally tore down the Berlin Wall. I guess I can understand why. That Howitzer in the backyard was not cheap! Nor were all those shells he bought for it. Stupid Gorbachev and his Perestroika!
Well, I guess I’m out of things to say. Not that I had anything to say in the first place. As for those two love birds, Bobby-Roy and Shelby-Ann, they headed to the North Pole with vengeance on their mind and passion in their loins. Along the way they met a disgruntled former employee of Mr. Claus – a bitter, hard drinking elf named Fibonnacci whose inside knowledge proved most vital in breaching the security at Santa’s compound. Just how did they make out? Maybe next Christmas I’ll be able to tell you that. This Christmas it’ll be another re-post of “Santa’s Revenge” which I’ve posted every year since writing it back in December of 2009.
Here’s to a more inspired 2015.