Every year, around this time, I start doing my part for the war against Christmas. Why? Because I fucking hate Christmas. I hate that idiot carpenter who was allegedly born, I hate that fat, red-suited lie we tell to children and I hate the shopping frenzy. I loathe the forced family time, the mandatory cheer, the stress, the songs, the getting called a scrooge and the jerks in Santa hats.
I hate it all.
I would like to see everyone shot. Then burned. Then I would like someone to shoot everyone’s ashes. Then that person could shoot themselves. Dogs could eat the corpse. Merry Christmas Fido. Here’s your feast.
So this year will be no exception.
This year my hatred is not even softened by the liberal application of alcohol. It is hardened into a lump of coal within my chest. That lump of coal is compressed into a diamond. I have a hate diamond. Right where my heart should be, there’s a shining and sharp chunk of bling-bling, ka-ching hate. And I hate diamonds.
But I think I’m going to buy and decorate some sort of tree. Not because I like the tree. I hate the tree too. I want that tree for the same reason someone in a vendetta movie might carry a picture of their enemy. I want to wake up and feel the light shining off my hate. If Tiny Tim shows up, I do not want to weaken. I want to beat him with his crutch and top my tree with his little head.
pic from here
