bring the noyz

And so this is Christmas
And what have you done

- Brother John

Yes. Yes it is. According to the little clock in the corner of my iBook screen, we are now officially 2 hours, 25 minutes and 52. . . 53. . . 54. . . seconds into Christmas.

Yeah.

While Santa has already eaten the cookies The Boy set out before he went to bed tonight and washed them down with a generous poor of vodka mixed with some some ginger ale topped with a large splash of cranberry juice, there are still no presents under the tree. Ah Hell, the family has spent the past three days bouncing between relatives and Santa is just too fucking tired to deal with wrapping shit right now. Guess he'll just get up early.

In all honesty, all that Santa wants for Christmas is to tie on a righteous buzz and give Mrs. Claus a good banging, but she is currently zonked on prescription medication for her allergies (blasted cedar fever) and her back injury (blasted kids she cares for while working as pediatric home health nurse), so that shit just ain't gonna happen tonight. Ah, but there is always hope for tomorrow. And it's fireplace weather. . .

Sigh.

I always feel weird on Christmas Eve.

Like I'm just going through the motions and faking it.

I've felt that way since I was a kid who was old enough to know the secret of Santa. I don't remember the exact "a ha"moment, but somewhere along the line when I recognized the fallacy of the Santa myth, I began to question the legitamacy of the primary reason for the day's celebration.

You know, that whole baby Jesus born in a manger to save you from the sin of being human thing.

I mean really now. Fool me once. . .

Ah, fuck it.

Happy X-Mas!
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