When I was a kid, one of our cherished family traditions was the Christmas singalong. I used to love the carols, but that was back when I didn’t have any responsibilities and still believed in magic and happiness. Now I just find them infuriating.
’Tis the season to be jolly. I’ve never been “jolly” in my life, and if I’ve just decked the halls, you can be damn sure I’m not gonna be jolly. I’m probably gonna be in a horrible mood and carrying around 1.5-liter bottle of wine that I’m drinking directly from.
Ring-a-ling, hear them ring! Soon it will be Christmas Day! Hey, thanks for the reminder that I haven’t bought any presents, baked any cookies, or done any decorating. You’re dicks, silver bells.
Haul out the holly, put up the brightest string of lights you’ve ever seen/Slice up the fruitcake. First of all, this song is from Mame, which reminds me of the summer I had mono and spent three weeks on the couch watching VHS copies of Broadway musicals. So there’s a count against it there. Second, everyone knows there is nothing fun about hauling out all your holiday shit, including—and especially—strings of nonfunctioning lights. And finally, if out of all the holiday joys, you think fruitcake makes the top three, you’re a moron.
Rockin’ around the Christmas tree. No. There will be no rocking, dancing, or horseplay of any kind around that tree, because if you mess up any of the ornaments I so painstakingly placed, for fuck’s sake I will cut you. While everyone walks gingerly around the tree, I’ll be off in the corner guzzling eggnog and crumpling scraps of wrapping paper into tiny balls.
Silent night. Thanks to my husband, who snores, and my three-year-old, who cries at 3 am because he’s awakened and decided he wants to play in mud, my nights are rarely silent. Whenever I’m lucky enough to get a silent night, it’s usually spent in sleepless existential anxiety as I realize my life is half over. Also, I haven’t finished shopping.
Oh, the weather outside is frightful. Frightful? How is this good? I can’t get the car down the driveway, let alone get to the hospital if someone suddenly falls ill. The more shit that falls, the more we have to shovel. Please stop snowing. Someone’s gonna want to build a snowman in 3, 2, 1…
In the meadow we can build a snowman and pretend that he’s a circus clown. We could. But how about we don’t. I will pay my husband to take on the snowman-building. No one is to pretend it’s a damn clown, whether or not I’m present. There’s no place on my property for a bastard snow clown that can come to life and kill everyone while we’re sleeping.
We wish you a merry Christmas. At one time, I’m sure it wasn’t so weird for strangers to gather at your door and demand figgy pudding in exchange for repetitious and obnoxiously out-of-tune singing. I heard you the first time—now get off my doorstep. Also, you’re not getting any figgy pudding. I don’t know what goes in it, I can barely cook for my own family, and it sounds disgusting. The closest you’re gonna get is Fig Newtons. What’s that you say? You won’t go until you get some? Will you consider going when I bring out my shotgun? Just kidding; I don’t own a shotgun. But seriously, get the fuck off my doorstep.