Christmas, Inc. Stock Tumbles — CEO Crucified

About fifty years ago, a scary looking guy in a flowing black robe threw some holy water in my face and gave me the gift of eternal life. I re-gifted it. Is that considered gauche? I didn’t want it, I didn’t use it, and I couldn’t see any point in wasting it. Not when there are so many needy people pining for it. Like the people who have adopted the flush-faced glow that is all the fashion rage this season. Here comes one now.

"Merry Christmas, Brad!"

Here we go again. The week of December 17 to December 24, when everybody feigns the cheeriness and good will toward men that accompany the economic indicator we know as Christma$.

I know, I know. Farm & Fleet erected the holiday store displays the day after Halloween. I was tripping over tree stands and icicle lighting displays to get to my fall fertilizer. But people don’t really get all Jesusy about the holiday until the final week. They’ve run with the bulls at Wal-Mart, and mortgaged the future with the purchase of X-Boxes and plasma televisions. Now it’s time to get all warm and fuzzy.

People bursting with Christyness indiscriminately dispense tepid hugs. The same people who wouldn’t let Jesus use the phone if His truck broke down in front of their house. The same people who would greet Jesus with a claw hammer and nail apron if He wandered through the gates of their country club. Jesus is a helluva guy conceptually, but they wouldn’t want to meet Him. Unless He appeared wearing tasseled loafers and driving a Beamer.

And He did just that in Malibu, California. Paul Mitchell, famous for satisfying the crying need for metrosexual hair care products, trucked in 65 tons of snow to his Malibu beachfront home. Tens of children of Hollywood entertainment moguls will not be robbed of a white Christmas due to the renovation projects underway at daddy’s Aspen villa. Oh, to see the wonderment in the eyes of these young princes and princesses. WWJD? Ask Paul Mitchell. The J-Man is looking down upon this Southern California winter wonderland, nodding his head with satisfaction. Yes, these people finally get it. Call off Armageddon.

So for one week, all of these folks are auditioning for the part of Saint Hypocrisy in the Christmas pageant. Nobody offered to truck in sand and sunshine to my frigid Midwestern estate, though. All I got was "Merry Christmas, Brad!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. God bless us everyone. Except Muslims and Jews, of course. We don’t like them, do we? And poor people. Those poor people really know how to rain on a parade, what with their neediness and all."

I managed to take the higher road again this year. I resisted the temptation to tell bratty little kids that Santa has cancer and it looks like he won’t make it to Christmas. Well, except that snotty doctor’s kid. I told her that Santa was buried in medical debt and got busted dealing crystal meth. After all, the Santa gig is no better than seasonal employment at Toys R Us. No benefits, no pension. Santa was brought before a bleeding-heart democrat judge who pronounced a sentence of community service. Jolly Saint Nick (that’s his street name) is required to begin his toy delivery route on the other side of the tracks, where your mommy’s housekeeper lives, and the crap at the bottom of his bag will be delivered to doctors’ kids. Some brown kid is going to get a $2,000 dollhouse with central air and a satellite dish. Hope you like your sock puppet.

I’m still waiting for the phone call on that one. What’s one more doctor threatening never to treat my medical maladies? I’ll cross him off in the Yellow Pages and, when my body starts turning on itself, I’ll choose from among the 1,100 remaining yet-to-be-offended-by-me pill-vending parasites in my little town. Or, I’ll just call Santa. The pharmaceutical coverage under my health plan pays the same whether I buy a drug from Merck or Santa’s lab.

Yeah, these annual Piety Games are the Special Olympics for the soulfully challenged. Nobody really wins, but everybody gets a trophy. There is no marathon; only sprint events. The closing ceremonies conclude with the disposal of the torn wrapping paper and the asphyxiation of the Goodness Torch.

Then the New Year’s Resolution charade begins.

Don’t get me started.

Taking Care Of Business

I have an uncanny ability to step in shit. Figuratively speaking. I occasionally step in real shit, too, but I don’t find that nearly as bothersome as some people do.

Even if there is no shit in my path, I can instantly conjure a steaming pile and step dead square into the middle of it. Figuratively speaking. When figurative shit becomes the gold standard, I will scrape my shoes at the teller window and leave the bank a rich man.

I was just lying there, minding my own business. My own business generally consists of lying down, which is how I do my best work, and thinking clever thoughts. I make my own hours, just like the Business Opportunities ads in the newspaper promise. I can’t say that my business is an Absolute Goldmine, but there is definitely Unlimited Earning Potential. My business is recession-proof and I pay no franchise fees. Self-Starters need not apply.

So I’m tending to my business and the phone rings. It’s a regular customer of my business.

"How ya doin’?"

"Good enough." That’s my pat answer here in the Land of Low Expectations. After all, when you set your expectations nad-high to a gnat, nothing can disappoint you. In that same vein, take care in establishing the standards for your own personal performance. Set the bar low and miss it three out of four times. That draws down the expectations of those around you, and you will soon sense less disappointment from them. Consider it a form of inoculation. Your friends and family will always feel good enough when they are around you.

"I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Oh." Note to self: Prepare a longer answering machine message for adoring public. "How much do you want to hear? Because I really should get back to my business."

"Don’t you sometimes just wanna hear my voice?"

For a moment, the only voice I heard was within my own head, and it was screaming HELL NO.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

Yeah, I was still there. I was there, holding a hunk of plastic to my ear for no reason whatsoever, cursing the Pavlovian intellectual weakness that prompts me to pick it up whenever it makes noise. I could take the easy out and let the runner advance. Make smoochy smoochy about how I relish the tender lullaby that is her voice, and be back to the couch and Everybody Loves Raymond in a matter of minutes. Nah. I’ve already seen this episode anyway. Debra rips Ray a new asshole, he apologizes profusely, and he still doesn’t get laid. As a matter of fact, that pretty much covers the premiere episode through the tearful final episode. Blue-balled Ray and a supporting cast of ball-busters.

"After all of the years I have spent living with women - yearning, aching for the infrequent respite from hearing their voices — no, I never just wanna hear your voice."

"But I’m different!"

Phone calls like this one remind me of the reason I haven’t married again. It took me a long time to figure this out, but as a single man I still enjoy the best part of being married. No, not that part, you gutter dweller. That part is overrated. That part is a lot of work, it’s expensive, and it gets in the way of the TV. The best part is the part when your wife isn’t home. She’s never home now, and that’s the bestest part.

"Don’t take this the wrong way (heh, heh — that’s a big road sign that reads "Wrong Way Ahead," leading to a big pile of aromatic, figurative shit), but you’re all different. Just when I think all of my shortcomings have been unearthed, identified, catalogued, dissected and analyzed, I meet another woman who is able to shed new light on my inadequacies and present them from a fresh perspective. Hers. Because she’s different."

"You really are an asshole."

"No fresh perspective there. Wanna buy a vowel? How’s my voice sounding, by the way?"

Click. Business as usual.

All right! Becker’s on! What a prick! I love that guy.