He’s that Santa guy that leaves you all those contraptions that require batteries of every shape and size once a year on Jesus’ birthday. It doesn’t matter how many batteries you stock, you could own a Sam’s Club, there’s no way that you’re going to have enough batteries come Christmas morning. And then you get those endless droning Christmas songs that kidnap the radio every year, and they come earlier in the season each and every time. I swear I heard Noel at a July 4th cookout this year. No kidding. Here comes Santa Claus, here comes St. Nick, Holly Jolly Christmas, I mean, there’s a billion of those things, they’re like cockroaches, they breed and grow and start cults of their own. Today it’s Good King Wenceslaus and tomorrow it’s a bunch of midgets singing in different languages, ‘It’s a small world after all, it’s a small world after all.’ Over and over and over again until the noise is a constant drone that makes you want to take up a pick axe like it’s a musical instrument. These Christmas songs are Satan’s spawn. They make Satan’s spawn look happy and joyous. Seriously, when was the last time a Christmas song cheered you up?

Christmas songs suck, Christmas songs drive people insane. Christmas songs make people angry in an abnormal way. I mean, there’s your normal pick up the Uzi and take out the co-workers kind of insanity, then there’s the I GOT STARTED BY A BUNCH OF CHRISTMAS SONGS IN AUGUST type of anger. That happened to me once. Get trapped on an elevator in a nine to five building with fifteen losers and a dozen Christmas songs about six months before you even start buying gifts for your oldest son. It’ll make you snap like a Slim Jim, full of spicy flavor and Cancerous grease. Christmas songs and Barry Manillow music probably cause some form of Cancer. I’m sure if we could get four or five doctors to look into it we could make a case. Her name was Lola, she was a Reindeer, in the hottest spot north of the pole-uh. Barry Manillow music probably makes some Christmas songs reevaluate their existence. Come on. He sucked, SUCKED I say. He made Kenny G look hip. Christmas songs pretty much do the same for me. In fact, I think the next time that I go to the dentists for anything more serious than a cleaning, I’m going to request that I be put under with the rabid sounds of Christmas songs in place of Anesthesia. It’s far more economical, and while it does cause some discomfort, the result is the same if you listen to two Christmas songs or you choke down a facemask full of Ether. Be naughty or nice with that.

In the end, Christmas songs will win out, simply because we are merely mortal, while Bing Crosby can croon forever about trivial things about white Christmases spent with hot models in cherubic hotels that went out of business fifty years ago. Christmas songs haunt us our whole life from birth to death, whether they catch you in a youthful cartoon, at a family gathering, or in an elevator full of businessmen midsummer. Let me tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt, once they get a grip, you are doomed, and they will haunt you beyond the shadows of a shallow grave.

“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock…”