Thanks-Giving and Thanks-GIMMY!

AT LAST! I have observed the respectable days of mourning between Thanks-Giving and Thanks-GIMMY! It's Here and it's my time to rail!

I've placed my lump of coal in my heater. (Yes, I do have a vintage charcoal heater.) Told Cratchet to pull that comforter tighter about him if he wants more warmth.

Next, I sharpened my feather quill with my replica Sweeney Todd shaving razor before turning off the electric lamps. If any joy can come to this cold heart it's knowing the six-pence I count on my desk will say there and not fill the coffers of the power company. It is with morbid satisfaction I watch that aluminum wheel slow to a stop, squeezing one kilowatt after another out of the power company.

I light my solitary hand-dipped candle to document my ravings, but not to worry, my laptop screen is back-lit.

What is it about this Season that Set my Satirical Side all a-Sizzle?

Oh -- Let me count the ways!

It's not the "spirit of Christmas" -- whatever that is -- I object to.

[See, whenever I mention an abstract term like "spirit of Christmas," it starts bouncing around in your brain like a marble in a tin can. Hard to grasp isn't it? Even more difficult to verbalize. But, alas, leave it to the professionals, like me.]

It is the Holy Herd of Hollow Sacred Cows we all Haul around at Thanks-GIMMY Time I am Hacked off at.

(For you satire-slow pokes that’s December 1-24 in the toy, electronics, small appliance, outdoors, and clothing isles of department stores.)

EXAMPLE: It’s things we do for absolute strangers, in-laws, out-laws, and ir-relatives, at this sentimental time of the year we wouldn't think twice of doing any other time of the year. In fact, you couldn't PAY us to talk to them. Feed a struggling family -- you mean they get hungry more than Christmas and Thanksgiving?

How dare they have birthdays or start school or grow up and need a new pair of shoes at any other time but Christmas!

"Who do they think they are? . . . My family? My relative? ... Obviously you don't know my relatives!"

Jesus -- you know, that little plastic dude they put in the manger this time of the year, -- the one surrounded by the shepherds, wise kings and camels, -- seems he wasn't content to stay put. He grew up became a teacher, a friend of street people, the sick, the shutouts, but irritated the sanctimonious. On day he told a group of those showoffs who wanted some back patting for all they had done for their church and their friends. Jesus pointed to the dirty children the pompous had to wade through and said.., "when you do it for the least of these, you do it for me."

Oh, Darn it! I hate it when He does that and starts messin' with my comfort zone. You mean HE expects me to do this Christmas Spirit thing all year long to STRANGERS?

Finally, after years, I seem to being making progress at my house when it comes to Christmas getting. The boys are in their upper teens. They are down to one request per Christmas and will gladly accept cash or a gift card for the store of their choice. My oldest is married and his wife's problem.

As for my wife and I, we'll give trinkets of affection for each other. It's not that she isn't special, it's just that I'm an all-year giver. I don't wait until Christmas or anniversaries to give her flowers and presents that let her know she is the love of my life.

It is with more than a little pride I walk through my local Super Wal-Mart in my "You-Can't-Touch-Me" Bubble." On the outside I may look like a harmless, meek, bald, English butler, with Santa Clause eyes, but inside there is a Rambo, bandanna-wrapped resistance gift-taban fighter, a bandoleer and 50 caliber machine gun in my arms. As I stroll through the isles I take my stand.

"No, you wire light-wrapped dunking reindeer. I will not be drawn like a moth to a flame."

"Take that, you inflatable flying Santa with Reindeer urinating pellets of white Styrofoam on the inflatable village of unsuspecting sleeping children below.

"You can't tempt me you jive-rapping cameo-dressed Barbies. I don't care how collectible you'll be in 10 years."

"Here's a few slugs you big screen TVs. There will be another super-hyped, fraged, two inches wider, plazzmatic screen that doubles as a microwave and high pressure home car wash to take your place tomorrow…Wait, wait, yea, that really is high definition."

And last but not least. "Were is that bossy woman in the self-check out machine? If she yells at me what to do ONE MORE TIME, I'm going to slide her head through credit card pad and type in 666."

So, after a season of creative drought, I'm back. I'm even considering taking on the HOLIEST CHRISTMAS COW of all . . . That's Right! . . . Santa Clause.

"Abomination!" you cry!

"Off with his head!" you scream!

"Burn him at the yule log!" you mutter from your egg nogg stupor!

But alas....it may not be what you think. Most of my readers can't tell me where the jolly elf came from save the Hollywood antics of Tim Allan or billboards of him holding a bottle of Coca Cola. If you know, please leave me a response in the comments box available.

And I will always feel obligated to leave you with a delightful twist.

Which reminds me: If I'm still on your Christmas list after this, there is a section of my Wal-Mart left standing standing after my mental Rambo Raid. There is this Therapist Select Shiatsu Plus Massaging Cushion which uses a state-of-the-art, moving dual-massage mechanism. . .

Writing these blogs all hunched over by candlelight are havoc on my back.

"Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's face but their own." Anonymous