I begin every single holiday season LOVING some Christmas songs. For example, I Love Love Love this sexy little song, “Santa Baby”. Have a listen:
By the time Christmas rolls around, I want to put my long fingers around the bitch’s little squeaky neck and shut her up. What? Don’t you?
There are other Christmas songs that are cutesy and make me smile. At first. But again, after a few weeks, my perception goes from cutesy to putting my size 9 foot through the fucking radio. By that time, I’m way past any reasoning my feelings away. Hearing “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” makes me want to go out and run some poor little old granny down. It’s not pretty folks.
And my partner? She really loves that stupid Stupid STUPID song “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”. I told her she already has one. Me. Just check out my rear end and shut up about it. I don’t need some octave-impaired
And then there’s Alvin and the Chipmunks and anything…Anything they sing. When one of their scratchy, screechy, scrunchy songs come on the radio, my mind goes into over-drive on how to hunt the creators down, tie the bitches up, and force them to listen to their crap for hours and hours and see how much they like it.
I’m not ‘into’ bondage, but I could go there, people, if I had to.
Perhaps the worst of the worst….the Piece de Resistance….the cream of the crap…..would be the Christmas songs sung by the cats. Lordy. If your ears haven’t been privy, have a listen:
Kinda gets you in the mood, doesn’t it? Not for Christmas, but rather for peeing in a cat box and licking yourself. Seriously, it’s what you don’t hear that can alter your psyche and give you shingles. If you played that song backwards, you’d bark like a dog and chew holes in your new bunny house slippers that Santa Baby brought you. You think I’m kidding. Check my closet. Bunny ears everywhere.
Some days you just can’t win. If the radio or the TV isn’t blaring Christmas songs, they’re playing Christmas commercials of people dancing through malls, singing badly concocted versions of Christmas songs and holding bags and bags of Christmas cheer. After viewing said commercial four or five times during a one hour show, you get up to raid the fridge and find yourself dancing across the floor and singing incomprehensible lyrics because you can’t remember the words.
But they got to you, didn’t they? The retail devils and their disciples, and the hot women in those little red skirts got to you. You’re suddenly in the Christmas spirit and you don’t even know why. You just want to dance. And shop. And sing incomprehensible lyrics. And pee in the cat box.
However, Doctor Terri is in and has your best interests at heart. Just hang on a sec while I step outside on the patio and howl at the moon. It’s calling me.
Ok, that felt good. I just need to Google dog-barking carols now. I’m shaking with anticipation. The world is my oyster and I’m allergic to oysters.
Where was I? Oh yea, the Doctor is in. This is my diagnosis:
You are way past help now. Just give in to the macabre urges and go with the flow. This is a temporary condition. Some things are just too big to fight. Think of yourself as that little wooden soldier nutcracker sitting up on the fireplace mantle. You can just watch all the action, and every now and then someone will stick their nuts in your mouth and you can be useful.
It’s good to be useful. And some people like nuts.
I leave you wanting more I’m sure, but I can’t sit here all day being brilliant. I have things to do. I can’t find my Snoopy Christmas pajamas and Wal-Mart is all out of my favorite fart-pillow stocking stuffers. I need to do some serious shopping research.
So? Enjoy these last three weeks before Santa Baby makes an appearance. And don’t worry about me because I’ll be on the mantle watching you. Just, please, tell your guests I’m broken. I gave up nuts years ago.