By Jeff Girod
Some people actually look forward to Christmas. I call these folks “annoying little bastards.”
My entire family has spent the last three weeks asking me what I “want” for Christmas. What do I want? What am I, six years old? I’m a grown man with a job, credit cards and access to the Internet. If I want something, I’ll buy it myself. I’m not waiting until December for you to pick it out. How about eliminating the middleman and just mailing my present to the Goodwill?
You know what, here’s what I want for Christmas: I want everyone to stop bothering me with stupid questions. And I want you to genuinely act surprised when the gift I give you this year looks remarkably like the crappy shower/shave mirror you gave me last Christmas.
I’ve reached a point in life where the items on my Christmas list can’t be purchased in stores. So unless you’re a magic wish-granting genie, stop asking me what I “want” for Christmas. If I were being truthful, my Christmas “wish” list wouldn’t have gifts on it at all. It would look more like a hit list full of people who have wronged me, followed by suggestions of slow, painful ways they should suffer.
But on the off chance you’re a genie (or a hit man)…
I want you to stop mailing me Christmas photo cards. Seriously. You get older and fatter every year. It’s embarrassing for both of us. Plus I already know what you look like. It’s probably why you have my address. I can imagine your family —crotch-to-ass sliding down a banister, gathered around a fake fireplace, building a beach snowman or forming some kind of fat, old human pyramid—without annual photographic proof.
I want you to stop sending me Christmas letters. I don’t need a detailed description of every little thing you’ve done during the past 365 days. I get it. You’re incredibly happy and wildly successful. You’re better than me at everything. You don’t have to brag because, frankly, I’m just scanning your letter for my name. Here’s a helpful writing tip: Nobody cares. So keep it simple. In fact, next year don’t bother typing a letter. Just leave a green Post-It on my front door that says, “NOT DEAD YET.” And for five uninterrupted seconds I promise to ponder the essence of you, and never once think about what a pompous douche bag you’ve become. Seriously, why are we friends?
I want you to stop pressuring me to decorate my house for the holidays. What if I’m a Jehovah’s Witness? Or a Scientologist? OK, so I’m neither. But what if my whole family was brutally slaughtered by a mall Santa and I can’t look at an inflatable reindeer without crapping a jingle ball? Has the neighborhood block association taken my feelings into account, or are you all hell bent on cramming Christmas cheer down our throats like a chutney-covered Yule log? I bought a house so I could decorate it any way I want. That goes for the outside, too. And if one more neighbor asks me when I’m putting up Christmas lights, I’m hanging rectal thermometers from the garage rafters and calling them icicles.
I want you to stop wearing Christmas sweaters. In fact, I want us, as an industrialized nation, to stop manufacturing Christmas sweaters. Nobody anywhere has ever improved his or her appearance by putting on a Christmas sweater. I have never looked at a woman and thought, you know, she would be much more attractive if her boobs and waist were rumpled and shapeless, covered in 20 pounds of woven yarn with a Koosh Ball dangling near her navel. You make the decision to put a light-up reindeer on your chest and, buddy, you might as well attach an adult diaper to that Christmas sweater, because you’re one step away from total surrender. And at that point, why bother getting up to go to the bathroom?
The greatest gift we can give during the holidays is brotherhood and friendship. I don’t have any brothers, so go make friends with somebody else. That’s my biggest Christmas wish: I just want it to be over.
Contact Jeff Girod at email@example.com