Don't Blame Jesus ... He Voted For Nader

My conversations are always interesting. To me. That’s all that matters. If the target of my conversation isn’t interested, I don’t consider that a lack of conversational prowess on my part. Some people just aren’t wired to appreciate a fine wine. Or a good fart. And I can’t beat myself up over the inadequacies of others.

Xmas is a real icebreaker for the conversational aficionado like me. It’s the one time of year when people can exhale their vapidity with every breath. The assembly of xmas displays at Target provides lucidity to those who struggle to have a thought throughout the rest of the year. And now that Target erects its retail xmas shrines on or about Labor Day, the chronically insipid have a full four months of thought to bang around in their heads and knock the barnacles off their craniums. No more shyness, tonguetiedness, or vacant stares — they just engage autopilot and utter "Merry Christmas."

‘Tis the season that makes my job easier, too. Sometimes I hit dry spells during the bleak doldrums of spring, summer and fall, and I just can’t come up with new ways to fuck with people. I become reclusive and uncommunicative, because "What Up?" just doesn’t open the doors that "Merry Christmas" opens. Don’t get me wrong. "What Up?" can get my juices flowing when it’s delivered from the piehole located beneath the male pattern baldness of a middle-aged annuity salesman, but it’s a shame to waste good material on someone that stupid. It begets nothing but self-entertainment, and I don’t need that. My relationship with myself, like any good marriage, has matured well beyond any enjoyment of my own conversation. If I can’t offend someone else, it’s a waste of verbal ammunition.

But "Merry Christmas" is a window of opportunity. It’s a chance to spoil the holiday spirit of the most devout christian, even before the VISA bills are mailed in January. Here, for your entertainment pleasure, is an uninteresting example of my machinations. You’ve read this far, so you obviously don’t have anything important to do.

"Merry Christmas, Brad!"

She is one of the mucky-mucks at my YMCA. She is of indefatigable spirit year-round, but particularly gushing with christiness during the holy season. How can she not be of indomitable spirit, given that her career path delivers unto her the muscular, sweaty bodies of young christian men every day? Sure, she could be the administrator of a drum circle camp for born-agains, but those guys are confused and clothed. Here, she has the kind of titillation typically reserved for congressmen and evangelical church leaders.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." That’s my most heartfelt expression of the joyousness of the season, and I share it only with a special few. "I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the xmas thing, since you clearly don’t heed my contributions to the suggestion box. I don’t see any of the Executive Directors with sand packed in their asses."

"Oh, Brad, why don’t you lose the curmudgeon act? I’ve seen and heard of your compassion towards others, and I’ve even caught you blowing kisses to the little girls who rap on the window and wave to you when you walk past the daycare. Your cover is blown — you’re a soft touch, and you love children."

"What’s not to love? They taste like chicken."

Christians react badly to images of children roasting over an open fire. Her face contorted like a sphincter suffering its first taste of badly digested holiday lutefisk.

I wasn’t about to allow her to change the subject by deflecting my assholiness. I was on a mission from god, and I demanded satisfaction.

"How is it that you can close this place down all day on the 24th and the 25th? Seems to me you should offer extended hours. What’s a good christian to do when an important ritualistic behavior is removed for two days running? My idleness could lead to arts and crafts in the devil's workshop. Like murder. Or masturbation. I may wield the weaponry, but the blood and cum will be on your hands!"

Pause for more facial contortions, followed by lascivious pondering of the cum-on-hands thing.

"Brad, we have lots of employees here who work hard year ‘round, and it is one of the guiding principles of our organization that they be allowed to enjoy the Christmas holiday with their families and loved ones."

"I fully understand the import of the xmas season, dear. It is a critical economic indicator, and bears great impact on the portfolios of fat, rich, white guys the world over. Santa included. Word on the street is that he’s taking a financial hit on Xbox deliveries in contemplation of highly profitable software sales between now and the resurrection. If he doesn’t meet Wall Street analysts’ expectations, that stone might not roll come next spring break. Also consider this little bit of holiday cheer: while our families and loved ones are trading sweaters on Monday, six soldiers will get their legs blown off while pursuing the infectious crusade for christio-democracy in Baghdad. Let’s call it the Twelve Legs of Xmas and set it to music. This disheartening reality is not lost on our Imperial Wizard; it makes him sad and we know he is sad because he says he is sad. He understands the sacrifice, because his only begotten daughters are facing the insurgence of purse-snatchers in Buenos Aires. He is feeling the pain, and he implores us to go shopping."

This is probably the last time she will confidently expect a benign you, too in return for her equally benign Merry Christmas. She shook her head and shuffled toward the door. I blew a kiss to a kid in the daycare, then demanded that she answer my question.

"Well, are you gonna stay open for the holidays?"

"Nope. Start wackin’."