A Special Holiday Message

I hate Christmas parties. Wait, that’s not true. I hate going to Christmas parties. Now that’s true. They tend to be filled with all the unused cheer that’s been blocked due to stress and cheese wheels you’ve swallowed all year.

It’s too fake. Too up with peopley. Too much to take. But, because of forces against my better health and well being, I make some appearances.

But I don’t join in with any of their reindeer games. I won’t ugly sweater it. I won’t sweater it at all. Get the fuck away from me with your Grinch sneers. You think your petty judgement is going to bother me?

You’re the one standing in front of me with what looks like a Nazi elf riding a candy cane colored dominatrix on an uncomfortable sweater. Yeah, your opinion is really important to me.

Besides, I don’t wear sweaters. Ever. Period. I blame sweaters for starting Bill Cosby on his road to rapist ruin.

So, being of that ilk, I’ve perfected the Zell Method of Holiday Party Shenanigans. And here, I’ll teach it to you!

Wherever people are in the room, go to the other side. If they’re pouncing around the punch bowl see if you can squeeze between the tree and the wall after
getting a beer. If they’re taking festive holiday photos around the tree go to the refrigerator, get a beer then stay there. All this moving will start making you tired so take a break and remember to remain hydrated. But when they inevitably crowd into the kitchen to klatch fill your pockets with beer and go sit in the car.

See? Easy.

But you have to be subtle about it. You just can’t go right to the car, that would be rude. Or so I’ve been told.

That means there will be a time or two when you’ll have to listen to, and sometimes get involved, in some inane blathering from people who make you think that you’d like to create mistlefoot, the evil opposite of mistletoe. Mistlefoot would be strewn around the floor and when someone stood over a piece you could kick them in the groin.

Fa lalalala la la la la.

I was surrounded by some of these people and got the honor of listening to a conversation about how much the holidays have increased this woman’s TMJ.
All the shopping and baking and whatever it is people do for the holidays (I don’t know what they do. I don’t cook – I think kitchen is a French word meaning, passageway to the backyard; I don’t wrap – it always ends up looking like something the cat spit up. One year I didn’t have tape so wrapped everything in white, sticky athletic tape; I don’t buy gifts for my loved ones – they never liked my surprises so I give them gift certificates to everywhere AKA money; I don’t even talk to anyone named Carol for the entire month) is really making it painful. She looks at everyone, there are six or seven people there, couples, a few who’ve strayed from their coupling, who are all nodding sympathetically with glazed over, couldn’t give a snowman’s snot about whatever it is this woman is babbling about.

Then she looked at me knowing I too would sheep up and bleat like the rest of these barnyard animals.

“Bullshit.” I cheerfully add. “I don’t believe in that shit.”

“Oh, I can tell you. . .”

“. . .you can’t tell me shit. TMJ is some bullshit made up by a woman who didn’t want to give blow jobs. So they made up a disease so she has an out.”

Hey, guess what? That wasn’t a very popular opinion!

But I could tell by the men avoiding eye contact they agreed with me. Or were afraid of being grouped in with me. Either way, they’re out of the discussion.

“You don’t know what you’re. . .”

“. . .I know damn well what I’m talking about. It’s bullshit. I wish Penn & Teller’s show ‘Bullshit’ was still on so they could do an episode on it.”

“What makes you the expert?”

“I was talking a bisexual woman who was bemoaning the fact that she suffers terribly from TMJ. I looked at her as if she’d just said she a gnome living inside her pancreas. Because she told me she didn’t suck dick I said she must be a horrible lesbian because eating pussy has many more moving parts then sucking a dick.”

I’m pretty sure that was the last conversation between us.

But, back at the party, I could see a couple of guys suppressing laughs. But they stayed true to their team and were lead off in a huff. And then a Christmas miracle happened,

I got an entire room to myself for the rest of my stay.

And a wonderful night was had by all.

Especially me.

Have a great whatever you want to call this time of year.

Just don’t put a sweater on it.

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3 responses to “A Special Holiday Message

  1. Bah Humbug? Just wait until the three spirits visit you! Then you’ll be sweating in a sweater around the punchbowl with the rest of us!

    • What three spirits? Gin, bourbon and vermouth? ‘Cause that’s all that’ll work, pal.

      I will not accept and if forced upon me I will not wear.

      I tend to avoid punchbowls too. A little to Jonestown culty for my taste.

  2. Why did I not find this before the Holidays. This would have saved me a lot of pain and misery. There is nothing worse than a feuding family trying to ignore there relentless misery and spend time with people they despise more than the people who ring those damn bells when I go to the Wine & Spirits store. I’ve come to find that the greatest present of all is a nice bottle of Jack right before the parties begin.

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