I’m Declaring War On Christmas And That Fat Bitch Santa

Normally I don’t get into divisive topics or stand gently on a wet, slippery soap box but, just this once, allow me to place my size 7 Rocky Boots- that I got for 25 percent off with the promo code zero- on the box of soap.

Christmas is being treated like some sort of Frankincense-scented Bruno Mars song and ruined by those who can’t let a good thing occasionally play on random. They must hit that swirly repeat track button and come down on us normals who wish to enjoy our delicious pumpkin beers without the daily drums of the little drummer boy echoing in our ear canals before Autumn officially Falls into bloom.

My beloved Lowe’s betrayed me this weekend. I was causally sauntering through the aromatic-infused garden center presented by Craftsman and decided to enter the lab (the main store). Much to my chagrin, I saw flicking lights, but not from the withering remaining lifespan of an overhead tube light. The flickering light was caused by the beat-following lights of a Christmas tree that was front in center at the front and center of the store.

can we not wait until Halloween, let alone Christmas? Have we no seasonal honor? Have we no code? 

To me, celebrating Christmas should be a special occasion. After all, there’s a reason that Christmas is known as the anal sex of holidays. If you have it all the time, what’s the point of birthdays and anniversaries? I don’t want my stockings full of Nate King Cole unless there’s a steady chill in the air. So steady that it’s like your mom’s dating style in 1974. Not dating. Going steady without even a hint of a hiccup. 

Until the calendar, whether it be advent, lunisolar, solar, lunar, seasonal, Umma, Gregorian, or our beloved Julian, reaches December, I ask you to treat Christmas like Longtime Stoolie Nacho Libre treated corn after a tough wrestling (luchador) loss.

feliz navidad? More like Feliz Navi-nah it’s too early for this shit.