- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Friday, December 26, 2014
The Post-Holiday Blues
Christmas is over. You got some of the things that you wanted. The mingling with the relatives has ceased. The feasting is finished, unless you count eating dried turkey leftovers feasting. Welcome to reality, asshole. Get back to the grind.
You try to postpone it as long as you can. You wear a Santa hat to work until your boss tells you to quit being an asshole and take it off. On the way to work you listen to Christmas music until you realized that if you hear Paul McCartney sing one more time about simply having a wonderful Christmas time, you're going to lose your shit. Fuck you, Sir Paul. Thanks for breaking up the Beatles. Of course, it's not fair to blame Paul for all that, but the holiday spirit is still lingering in your heart, and sometimes, we lash out during the holidays, when we realize this idealized time is but a sliver of our actual lives. You can't live on candy canes forever, buddy.
But still, you resist. The Christmas tree stays up till March. You keep the lights on the house till July. You start planning next Christmas. You keep wrapping paper in the closet, where it's close and handy.
Eventually you start seeing things. Elves crawling the walls. You hear the labor of their workshop, the pounding of their hammers. Outside, silhouette shapes crawl, some surrealist's impression of reindeer. You put on considerable weight. Your beard starts to grow shaggy and unkempt. People pass you in the street, and you mumble "Ho ho ho," under your breath.
"Jesus," you say, your voice a bassetto rumble. "Where's the holiday spirit?" You ask random people this question, and you run after them when they try to escape. The police apprehend you after you assault a women for not wearing enough red. Somehow, you escape your bonds. They search and search for you, but nothing is found.
You retreat to the Arctic, feeding off of the flesh of seals. You make your home out of the bones of whales, the beasts of the tundra your only friends. When they come from the ice, whispering demon dreams of progress, you let them in and put them to work. They make marvelous contraptions, complexities no human hand could forge. They make you their chief, their saint. You dress yourself in shaggy robes of red. You've become enormous. Your bulk threatens to devour every room you enter.
Congratulations, you are Santa Claus. What will you do with your power? Only you can decide.