I suppose it wouldn’t be right for me to shit on Christmas without offering a logical explanation. Just because I was a stupid kid who believed in ridiculous fairy tales doesn’t mean that I think the entire holiday is an elaborate plot by department stores to sell hideous crap–that would otherwise never leave the shelves–to the brainwashed masses. Truth be told, I love Christmas. So what that I’m Jewish.
Who doesn’t like to drive down every single street and see bright, colorful lights on all the trees? If Hanukkah were this festive, I might actually remember to light the menorah once in a while. You’ll never find a hundred people waiting in line at the mall to sit on the rabbi’s lap. And mistletoe; what an awesome idea. Hey, look, there’s a complete stranger standing underneath a few leaves. I think I’ll go make out with her. If you tried that any other time of year, you’d be washing the mace out of your eyes for a week and a half.
But I do harbor a deep-rooted hatred for the twenty-fifth of December. It dates back to 1989, when I was an ultra-shy, reasonably intelligent third-grader, attempting to win his first spelling bee. Round after round, I mauled the competition, until it was down to myself and two others. The three of us were spelling our little asses off, and when my next turn came up, I stood up, confidently, and spelled my assigned word:
Raindeer. R-A-I-N-D-E-E-R. Raindeer.
Yea, that didn’t go so well. I think Brian Donalds won the spelling bee that year. It didn’t matter, though. My 8-year old heart was broken by a large-bellied, bearded man’s penchant for mystical transportation with huge fucking antlers. Diva. Why couldn’t he just fly his fat ass around on an ordinary H-O-R-S-E?
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