I hate the holidays. There. I said it. All the retail giants can drag me to the outskirts of town and stone me to death with their mother in-laws fruitcake. Society has removed the baby Jesus as the reason for the season and he has been replaced with a balding fat guy with a beard that smells like scotch and reindeer. And everyone knows the jolly fat man isn’t real, because his marriage to Mrs. Clause has lasted for far too long. No woman is going to put up with their husband flying around the world, playing with elves, and eating other women’s cookies and milk.
If Santa was real, I believe he would spend Christmas Eve lying in a recliner and scratching himself while he watched football like any other self-respecting man. Of course sometimes as a husband you have to take one for the team and spend time with the in-laws during the holidays. If you are one of these poor unfortunate souls I have a few tips on how to enjoy (or at least appear to enjoy) those awful holiday visits.
Tip 1- Create a buffer zone
The day before your visit you must prepare yourself physically for a preemptive strike on the family. I like to do this by stuffing myself with hard boiled eggs and refried beans. This deadly concoction will brew in your digestive tract overnight and will ensure better protection from your mother in-law than a restraining order. No one will come within 50 yards of you and your “buffer zone”.
Tip 2-Prepare yourself mentally
The day of the visit you must prepare yourself mentally for what is coming. The one story that your dad tells every time you see him about the time during the war he saved an entire continent from annihilation with only a butter knife and a bag of cashews. There’s also the story granny tells about the time your dad got drunk and attacked a group of small children by pelting them with cashews and waving a butter knife screaming something about communism.
Tip 3-Eat before you visit
Hopefully your mother in-law is a good cook; otherwise the day is entirely wasted. There is nothing like undercooked turkey and burned rolls that lay in your gut like a rock to ensure you will be spending the afternoon in the crapper. This may not be such a bad option if you can get a TV in there to watch the game. My grandmother was a wonderful cook. Granny never had to measure anything when cooking, she always done a “pinch of this” or a “dash of that”. I still remember her in the 1000 degree kitchen, whipping mashed potatoes by hand with a cigarette dangling precariously from her mouth. I am sure from time to time ashes from the cigarette were falling into the potatoes, but no one cared. They were the best damn mashed potatoes available in the free world. Perhaps the cigarette ashes gave them that smoky flavor we all loved.
More Bah Humbugary
I hate getting Christmas cards. Is there any possible way to tell someone “I don’t give a damn about you at all” than to mail a crappy card. Indeed, nothing has ever said” I love you” more than a piece of cardboard with a mushy sentiment hastily signed and shoved into an envelope. At least that’s what Hallmark and the post office wants you to believe. One year I printed my own “bah humbug” cards complete with random rants about how much I hated the commercialism of Christmas. My plan backfired. Everyone I sent a humbug card to went to Hallmark and purchased a piece of cardboard with a mushy sentiment hastily signed and shoved into an envelope. If you want to wish me happy holidays do so by sending me a gift card. Nothing says “I love your fat ass” better than spending a $200 gift card at the cheesecake factory.
Decorating for the holidays should be reserved for those of us who have committed unspeakable acts of violence such as pepper spraying someone who cut in front of you in Wal-Mart on Black Friday and took the last Chia Pet. I don’t see the point. People string thousands of lights until their front porch looks like a runway at an airport, and then bitch and complain because their electric bill was $2000 in December. The Santa’s on the lawns, reindeer perched on roofs, and nutcrackers guarding the front porch are all part of the conspiracy. It is what the corporate fat cats need to see to have reassurance that you have drank the eggnog flavored Kool-Aid and are now one of them.
The exchanging of gifts is one tolerable aspect of the holidays I can live with. I can never have too many bottles of cologne, pairs of socks, or enough shirts that are 6 sizes too small. I have always been a “well proportioned” man, and haven’t worn an adult extra-large shirt since kindergarten, however ever year without fail some well intending family member will send me a shirt that if I wore I would be arrested for indecent exposure. Then of course there is always the expectation that you will return the favor by giving a gift. Since I am tired of being insulted with shirts that I can’t wear, I have decided from now on I will give likewise. All females on my gift list will receive an athletic cup. All males on my gift list will receive a box of tampons. If they want to get together later and exchange them they can. The only exception to my gift giving policy will be if the receiver is over 65 years of age. In that case the females will receive a thong, and the males will receive a tube of icy hot disguised as hemorrhoid cream. Merry freaking Christmas, happy holidays, and pass me some of them smoky mashed potatoes
