It's Like This

I may drop the "Self-Indulgence" tag because, after all, that's the only thing we do on this blog, ever. Oh, wait.

Merry Fucking Christmas. Have yourself some peace and love and joy and all that shit, and even if you're a Jew or something, Merry Fucking Christmas, and enjoy your day off.

Okay, so it's all about self-indulgence any more. I have previously documented my extreme disdain for the holidays...wait, that post doesn't really cover it, and nothing from the previous year does, either.

So here's the thing: I hate the fucking holidays. I hate the frenzy, I hate the impulse to give shit away--I'm perfectly happy to give shit to my friends and loved ones as I spend quality time with them and dry-hump Christ's ghost, I'm just not thrilled with the whole cultural giving/getting imperative. I hate the music. I hate the obligation. I hate the She-Nurse of the SS, although I of course love her and grow more melancholy as she ages and approaches the point where I'll have to warehouse her somewhere to keep from having to change her diapers. I especially hate the number of dead people who aren't around for me to spend time with around the holidays, because I'm morbidly hung up on that kinda shit.

And that is what I have to say, despite this guy's increasingly desperate goading for me to post something, anything, to demonstrate that I haven't spiralled into some despairful pit of dronage. Yes, beloved canine friend, I have in fact spiralled into such a pit. And no, beloved minions, if I had anything to say it would all reduce to this: I'm busy eating and fucking and beating my head against the etermal brick wall of parenting and working and working and working and phasing into utter dronedom, albeit without the Budweiser.

Is this a permanent condition? Beats the fuck outta me. I'm not thinking my haid would look pretty in that there oven or anything, I'm just feeling like things to look forward to, other than the blissful hour or two between kidderiffic unconsciousness and mine own, are a bit well-spaced, and I don't have a lot of need to blather about that or about the douchery of politics or about the vast emptiness of the sporting universe or about deep-fried Twinkies on a stick, and there's only so much you want to hear about the joy of program management or the decrepitude of Washington's NFL team or the pointlessness of a Premiership existence in a world where the Big Four and Sven destroy the universe and Boro gives up 92nd-minute goals to the fucking Hammers, although schadenfreude remains good--keep wearing your helmet to play chess, Cech-Czech.

Happy holidays to all my minions.