So, it's Christmas again. As would be expected, I started writing one of those patented Christmas Sucks Donkey Balls sort of posts, and I managed to come up with this gem:
... time again for the relentless, rapacious, bloody knuckle-dragging, brain-challenged monster known as Christmas to make its catastrophic appearance; smothering all with its hollow, wobbling bulk and sickeningly vapid halitosis compounded from stupidity and greed ... Crushing everything in its path, obliterating what little sense remains among the breathlessly dumb animatronic retards who comprise the moronic mass of American "citizenry," yanking the consumerist chains of blubbery halfwits and cloven-headed clodhoppers the world over. Here it comes -- over-dressed in obnoxious fakery and gulag-produced frippery, lurching and stomping and careening and caterwauling in a frenetic boogaloo of psychic and financial destruction. Gag me with a plastic Chinese Christmas tree; beat me with a rubber yule log; choke me with a half-off sale.
And so on and so forth, in a ridiculous display of prose-puke excess that was leaving even me a bit queasy and disoriented. I should remark that I've never claimed to be a poet, or a literary figure of any sort. As if that needed pointing out.
In any case, it isn't my intention really to indulge in what is likely the most shamelessly masturbatory activity to be found in all of blogdom: the self-quoting thing. How revolting. I can't imagine anything I might say actually improving with repetition (especially by me), or even being worthy of such nonsense -- and, now that I think about it, the same might be said for the pathetic debris that constitutes the vast bulk of the virtual world. Anyway, I'm only engaging in this questionable pastime to illustrate a point, of some kind or other. And that point is ... Wait a second, it'll come to me.
Well, the point would be something like this, perhaps: even I, the human heat-sink of snarky bile, a champion purveyor of vitriolic and incomprehensible frustration, one angry little pimple lost within an immense ocean of existential acne, the harsh bastard of uncivility and non-compromise ... even I am sick to death of the raging shitstorm of negativity that passes for discourse in this sad, blighted, terminally-ill epoch. Even your ill-mannered, foul-tempered, gutter-mouthed barstool jockey here has had enough of this repulsive bullshit. But then, I should say that this empty gesture (if that's the proper word), arguably reasonable and even noble in intent, applies only to Christmas -- to the memory of Christmas' past, when I was a kid and things were both simpler and made more sense. In tribute to times and places ... and people ... that are no more, I've decided to choke down my innate cynical nastiness for one day, anyway, and keep my unsolicited vomitus opinions to myself. For one day. The day after Christmas, needless to say, all bets are off.
What the hell.