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My wife loves Christmas. Me, not so much. This is possibly one of the biggest issues that we don't see eye to eye on, except, of course, for certain ideas about home decorating, as well as the fact that my wife doesn't like pizza as much as I think she should. Other than that, Christmas is one of the few things we aren't completely in agreement on. Oh yeah, and when a car is old enough to be traded in for a new one. That's another issue we don't agree on, but besides that, the big one is Christmas.
So out of respect for my wife, this year I have decided to try and present a more positive outlook on the holiday. This year I will not be telling the tale of Rudolph the Gangrenous Reindeer, Frosted Flake the Snowman, or Peter the Perverted Elf. There will be no mention of Santa's diet plan, no reference to angels singing product jingles, and not even a word about the three exceptionally wise men who brought allergy medications to three people sleeping in a barn. There will be no snow in Southern California, no room at the inn, and no parking. I will especially not bring up the Christmas spit (which is green and red by the way) because -- I just remembered this -- my wife isn't especially fond of booger jokes. Okay, you can tell I have already failed miserably. I can't help it. Hate me if you will, but there's something about Christmas that prevents me from taking it seriously. Maybe I should go in the opposite direction. Instead of pretending to like Christmas, I should write a book titled Making Fun of Christmas. Chapter one would be called "No Virginia, There is No Santa Claus." It would take the form of a letter that says: Dear Virginia, There is no Santa Claus. I can't believe how stupid you little kids are. Stop sending letters to imaginary people. Signed, A bitter and disgruntled postal employee Chapter two would be about the spit, I'm sorry... the spirit, of giving. It would say the following: Every year, come the holiday season, I am reminded that Christmas is about giving. So this year, I decided I would give more than I ever had given before. But how, I wondered, could I give so many gifts and yet keep the focus on giving? If people received the presents, there was a good chance they would be happy that they received something and, as I had been told over and over again, that was not what the holiday was about. I came up with a brilliant solution. I would buy tons of presents, wrap them, and take them directly to the dump. I told a friend about my plan and he said, "If you're not going to give them to anybody, why not give the presents to me?" "You're missing the point," I said to him. "Christmas isn't about GETTING. It's about giving!" On Christmas Eve, I took the presents down to the landfill, and joyously tossed them from the back of my truck into the waiting piles of junk. As I watched a tractor push the packages forward into a growing mound of refuse and lift a load of dirt high into the air, my spirits were also lifted. I felt exhilarated as the dirt from the tractor's jaws fell upon the presents, covering them up for good and thereby extinguishing any hope that the forces of greed and selfishness would ruin my Christmas day. "Happy Holidays," I said to myself, and I felt as if understood Christmas in a way that I never had before. I haven't finished the rest of the book yet, but it will be in stores by next winter. So buy it! Buy it as a stocking stuffer for a beloved friend. Or wrap it up in shiny foil and give it to your spouse. I'm sure they'll love it. |
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