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Being “Jingle Belled” to Death

“Deck the halls with bells of holly; Fa la la la, la la la la; Tis’ the season to be jolly; Fa la la la la, la la la la”

Jolly? How could anyone even imagine being jolly when they are forced to listen to the same crap day after day, year after year, everywhere they go from the middle of November until sometime in February when people finally sober up enough to realize that the big fat man in the red suit came and left long ago, and they should probably put the music away before they are air-mailed a giant lump of coal for torturing the entire human race into insanity. There is no escape from the sickeningly joyful “tra la la” melodies that surface around the Christmas season because they are everywhere! Department stores, restaurants, public bathrooms, television, radio, cult gatherings, A.A. meetings, schools, churches, courts, jails, and most annoyingly, traveling door to door in your neighborhood.

It’s such a scam! Dressing up little orphans an dieing old people in frilly little costumes and sending them out to bother innocent people lounging comfortably in their homes for cash in exchange for the “Christmas spirit” they claim to deliver in the from of the same obnoxious, monotonous carols that you get more than an earful of for free every time you set foot outside the door. The next Christmas caroler to show up at my house will soon learn the Rudolph isn’t the only one with a nose bright enough to lighten the blackest night.

Christmas music needs to take a vacation to a deserted island, get lost in the recesses of the Bermuda Triangle and come back many years later when I’m dead and it can be passed of as “the best Christmas fad since artificial snow and icicle lights that were only made for the suckers in Arizona who wanted it to feel like ‘real Christmas’ and probably couldn’t tell the difference from the real thing anyway”. If it can’t disappear completely, can’t people at least lay off it a little more? I mean, is it really necessary to recount to me the life story of a dead snowman while I’m attempting to use the restroom, shop for socks or pledge my undying allegiance to the mighty god of toenail clippings?

If you think about it, Christmas music is kind of scary. Being constantly reminded of the supposed existence of this old, fat guy who spend all year watching me, decides on a whim to fly to my house, lands his giant bulky sleigh on roof getting reindeer droppings everywhere and creating the risk of a repeat death of the Wicked Witch of the East, breaks into my house, eats my food, and then drops a lump of Kingsford charcoal into a bright red sock only to return and do it again the next year really makes me want to fill up my chimney with cement. What child needs to live in fear of this red suit clad stalker and his intentions concerning the outcome of their Christmas? Can’t we bathe ourselves in the materialism of modern society without this elaborate lie of a fat fairy man that we still apparently believe in enough to keep writing twenty million of the same three-chord, jingle jangle, tuneless Christmas songs about? It’s all insane!

Christmas music isn’t even realistic. Most of the omnipresent melodies depict rosy scenes of sitting around the open fire, roasting chestnuts with your family while watching the snowfall and other similar Hallmark greeting card moments. Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never even seen a chestnut before. Most Christmases of mine, and those of my friends, have been spent either drinking in a corner alone; drinking with a friend or family member and despairing over how sad life has become; drinking at a Christmas party filled with people you don’t like, but are tolerating because your wife demands it and you have a feeling Santa’s going to pull through on that BMW this year; drinking at a family dinner table filled with people you don’t like, but are tolerating because you really need those thirty five pairs of new socks; wishing you could be drinking as you hold the kids on leashes to stop them from killing each other over who gets to open the first present; or doing something really pathetic like being stuck in jail or going to see a movie. If Hallmark wrote greeting card like that, they’d go out of business. Why do I want to hear about your perfect Christmas when mine never end up that way? The suicide rate is high enough in this country and we don’t need “Christmas inferiority” added as a cause.

All this annoyance brings me to my current situation. My excessive hatred for the holiday tunes caused me to temporally lose control of all rational thought during a local “Music of the Season” concert and I ended up detonating an obscene amount of stink bombs causing several deaths and the need to fumigate the entire town. I have now become a part of the “pathetic losers who spend Christmas in jail” club, and I still have to put up with the stinking Christmas music.

“Well, that’s my story, what are you in here for man?”

“I murdered Bing Crosby”