Thursday, December 8, 2016

My Special Christmas Wish

How are you?

Goddammit, that innocuous little question somehow irritates the hell out of me, especially this time of year.

How am I? I'm fine, motherfucker. Worry about yourself.

Something else that irritates the shit out of me... sunshine. I fucking hate the sun. Ironic that I live in Hawaii, isn't it?

But seriously, I don't get this infatuation people have with sunlight. All that shit does is get in your eyes and make you squint. And if you're in it for long, you sweat your balls off.

I'd much rather drink a glass of milk for my vitamin D and head on back down to the dungeon basement for some more squats. Lactose intolerance... ahh, nevermind. Don't even get me going with that one. My plate is heaped full of hate aplenty already.

I wish the sun would go behind a permanent cloud. These last three rainy and overcast weeks have been absolute bliss for me.

If the sun disappeared forever, I'd get the added bonus of reveling in the misery of all you light worshippers. It'd be sort of like that dark cloud New England winning the Super Bowl... miserable fucks all around to make me feel great!

I wonder if that's how conservatives feel about the liberal reaction to the election? If it is, I might actually have something on which I can agree with them.

A light bulb just went off; a moment of inspiration if you will. I know what I'm going to do next time someone asks, "How are you?" I'm gonna shift positions before I answer so the sun is glaring right in their eyes, and I'm gonna pause for a good long time to think about my response.

Blinded with an instant migraine... that's the reaction I'm going for. You know, similar to my own reaction to just about any political post these days.

Maybe I can even find a way to weave TB into my long-winded answer to really ruin someone's day. Part of the reason I like him so much is because I know how much you hate him. Yep, I'm thinking it'll go something like this:
"Oh, I'm great, since Brady won... ho-hum... again. It's nearly automatic when you're smart and sublimely talented, with a gorgeous wife and loads of money, and you're willing to out-work everyone else.  
Makes you jealous, huh? Makes you hate him a little, right? Makes you wish he'd fail.  
He doesn't care if you like him or not, though. He might even prefer you not to. You know, motivation and all. That's one small thing Tommy and I have in common besides great hair.  
I'd say thanks for asking how I'm doing, but I wouldn't mean it, just like you didn't really care about my response when you asked - you fake motherfucker - so I won't bother. You probably shouldn't have either."
I don't really have great hair. That was a joke.

Now this cat, on the other hand, has spectacular hair.
I guess what it comes down to is that I hate pretending, yet that's what most people do all day and expect of others. Why are you pretending your life is so great with all your little memes telling me how I should think and behave?  Did you even read that stupid shit or do you just regurgitate others' thoughts?

You're really so perfect you have all the answers?  Bullshit. Anyone with half a brain can see through your lunacy, so just stop.

It's like adolescence all over again, worrying about what others think and trying to win some popularity contest that I can only hope doesn't really exist anymore. I'm so tired of all the perfection, filtered and photo shopped to make everyone look prettier than Derek Zoolander.

I'm so hot you're probably touching yourself right now.
Y'all think I'm miserable? Maybe, but not half as miserable as you pathetic fucks burning all this energy lying about how great you are. C'mon, we all know you eat your own boogers. Show us your warts.

I've always had a mean streak. There's a side of me that enjoys your misery, if it's self-inflicted or I just don't like you. Maybe it's more pronounced since Roo died, but maybe not. 

Remember the very first Rocky movie? You know, the good one. It's on TV three times a week, so not shaving or not getting your period yet is no excuse for not having seen it.

Anyway, part of the premise is that Rocky is too nice of a guy to be a very good mob collector. There's a scene where he's supposed to break a guy's thumb who owes Mr. Gazzo some money, and he lets the guy run off with a feeble threat. Spoiler alert... Rocky's giant heart is supposedly part of the reason he's able to take that horrific beating from Apollo and keep getting up.

This guy looks scared, but he knows that big ole teddy bear hugging him isn't really going to do shit.
Oh sure, he could beat the hell out of a dead carcass,
but he had no stomach for breaking live bones.
Eight-year-old me wasn't buying it. I figured if Rocky'd been a little meaner he'd have whooped Creed's ass in the first one and saved us all the admission price we had to shell out for the sequel and for the other twelve after that. I mean, it's not like Mr. Gazzo was stealing from those dope heads. He loaned them money. They owed it back, with interest. 

Too bad he didn't hire me as his collector. I'd have done the job right. Hell, I'd have enjoyed breaking thumbs all day.

Snap-snap. Mr. Gazzo and I would have never had this awkward conversation.
If only I could go back and be an innocent eight-year-old again. Oh the things I'd do differently. By now, if Roo was still alive, I'd have built a successful little business enterprise I could pass on to her.

My dad would have taught me just what to do to people who owe us money.
I also remember cold days as a kid waiting on the school bus in West Virginia. It made me happy to see people's teeth chattering. The more they whined about the cold, the warmer my black heart felt.

If you're so soft you can't handle waiting for the bus on a cold day, well, I have no sympathy for you. Your toes can freeze and fall the fuck off for all I care. Throw them in the pile with your fingers if you were dumb enough to borrow money from a mobster.

And if you're so miserable you have to constantly post crap about how awesome your life is to try to make me feel shitty, well, I don't feel even a little bit bad about turning the tables by fucking with you.

Maybe this post won't resonate with a soul. A good friend whose opinion I respect told me to sleep on it. That was her kind way of saying not to share it.

Obviously, I didn't listen. I'm stubborn like that. I happen to think there's one audience who might get it. This one is for all my fellow bereaved parents who just aren't into it this year.

Holiday blues? Try a news feed filled with pictures and videos of families cutting down trees, decorating them, and enjoying the holidays together when you don't have any of that.

My kid is buried under a tree somewhere. Does that count? Do we have some common ground? Nah, not so much.

All this lead-up is just foreplay, though. Soon we get the climax. The big day will be upon us, and we'll have the endless barrage of present-opening pictures to endure.

Not much to see here; just someone's beaming brat reveling in the orgasmic ecstasy of consumerism.
See how happy she is? What? You can't see the kid? Oh, don't be silly. She's just buried under that pile of crap that will be more forgotten and useless clutter by next week.

Wait! Don't scroll past this riveting display of ostentatious wealth and success. We have so many more to share on this glorious day of the birth of our savior, Capitalism, and we want to be sure to rub your nose in our shit. Our goal as parents to the perfect princess is to post until you puke on your keyboard. Weeeee!  Isn't this fun???

I have pictures, too. I decorated my kid's grave. Actually, I didn't. I'm 5,000 miles and a time warp away. Her mother decorated it. But I did get to go to a candle lighting service for dead babies.

Wanna see that awesomeness? No, not really? You'd rather look at the happy little heathen above?

Too fucking bad. Here they are anyway. I hope they ruin your Christmas spirit and send you into a three-day funk similar to the one I've been in for three fucking years.

Ah-ah-ah. Do not whizz past.
Stop and take a good long look at Christmas.
Yep, the holidays are a rough time of year for parents like me. And as shitty as losing Roo is for me, I've met other bereaved parents who drew a worse hand than mine and have lost more than one child or maybe spouse and child together in some of the most horrific circumstances imaginable.

But we don't want you to feel sorry for us. Nope, we're tired of your half-assed pity in between holiday shopping sprees. We have an alternative to pity. 

Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is to fuck it up for everyone else. Can I get that? Pretty please? It's my special Christmas wish. It's going to be my most cherished holiday tradition from now on.

I am soooo going to enjoy being a complete dickhead, and I'll do an even better job with this than I'd have done breaking those thumbs. I pinky promise to not return calls and not show up for anything and not buy a single Christmas present. Most of all, I'll tell everyone how stupid they are for getting caught up in all of it.

No kid for me. No happy Christmas for you. Now we're even Steven.

Sing it now.  It's the most wonderful time... it's the hap- happiest time... of the year!

Don't you just want to give me a big hug and tell me everything's going to be okay, even though you don't have a clue what you're talking about? Yeah, well you can stick your hug straight up your ass along with the longest candy cane you can find.

Such mean-spirited behavior will land me on the naughty list? Good. That's where I belong. That other list is for pussies.

Ruining Christmas? I, for one, think that is just an awesome idea!
Hold your children tightly this holiday season. That's my other special Christmas wish. They're the ONLY thing that matters. Don't let anything stand in your way - not the lines and crowds; not your never-ending responsibilities; and certainly not a bat- or pen-wielding bully who's hell-bent on wrecking it for you.

Who am I to tell you your life isn't as great as you say it is? Fake it 'til you make it, right? And maybe you really have made it.

From my perspective, if your children are alive and in good health, you have much to be thankful for and should absolutely rejoice in that however you want to. My teeth gnashing isn't your problem. Just stay out of range of my bat-pen and you'll be good.

While you're soaking up every second of joy and creating those memories and sharing them with the world, take a moment to pause and think about all this good fortune. If you have your kids, you have everything.

Let's try that opening again.

How are you?

I'm fine. How are you?

No... really... how are you?

Merry fucking Christmas.


  1. So glad I'm in Glasgow and not in range of your aggressive rage. I find my thumbs quite useful. It's plenty dark here, though. Only about six hours of daylight a day. Perfect for miserable people wanting to flip off the universe. And plenty of places to get drunk. Merry Christmas, you lovable miserable bastard.

    1. I assure you dearest Renee that you, forever and always my favorite person I have ever worked with, are completely safe from my rage. Merry Christmas to you as well. I think of you and Geoff often and hope our paths cross again one day. Now please stop ruining my nasty reputation with all this gushing.