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.