It always makes me giggle when people complain about references to Christmas over the winter holiday season, fretting that flaunting the celebration of Christmas proper is an affront to other faiths and traditions.
That’s a big fat load of shite, and I’m gonna tell you why. Because while it’s certainly true that Christmas is, at least nominally, a celebration of the birth of one Jesus H. Christ, the day has been so rampantly cross-pollinated, over time, with various and sundry pagan traditions, and so corrupted by consumerism and other secular shenanigans, that its foundation in Christianity has become more a matter of theoretical construct than actual fact.
The only thing missing from our yearly Christmas rituals is a shout-out to the Dark Lord himself. Hail Satan, Jake. Let’s give the Devil his due.
No, but really. The holiday’s pure and pious Christian founders brought this upon themselves. Because in an effort to convince the heathen masses to abandon the Old Ways and embrace a new state religion, early Christians in Europe translocated Christ’s birthday to December, so no one would miss the good-times fun of pagan solstice celebrations and other witchery already entrenched during that time of year.
With time, Christmas was peppered with traditions pilfered from all of those other, “lesser” religions. Because nobody really cares who the party is for, Jake, just so long as someone remembers to bring the booze.
Thus we have traditions such as the Yule Log, a phallic tribute to an early Scandanavian fertility god; Christmas trees, which can be traced back to the debauched Roman Saturnalia festival, and to Bacchus, the god of wine, f@%#ing, and ritual madness; Mistletoe, the nectar from which, according to Norse traditions, was actually the semen of the gods themselves.
Hell, some people speculate that even jolly old Saint Nick himself was originally a sort of diabolical double agent, an alleged Christian saint who held sway in certain areas where Celtic and Germanic cults were still strong, enlisting as his sidekick a dark emissary of the pagan deity Wodan.
And let’s not forget the most important Deity of them all come Christmas time, the One True God of Walmart and Amazon and Target, the God of laissez-faire capitalism and keeping up with the Jonses, the All-American God of Buying More Sh!#.
Remember that the Good Lord loves a winner, Jake. Or at least that’s what the Calvinists say.
Point being, Christmas is both the most delightfully multi-cultural and yet quintessentially American of all holidays. And with that being said, here is my quasi-annual Christmas shopping list of gifts for folks you may know, or at least recognize:
For Preservation Pub Entertainment Director Scott West: A set of horse blinders. In hopes that he will be better able to move in only one direction at a time.
For Bernadette West: A bridle. See above. For reining in her stallion.
For the Democratic Party: Donald Trump, candidate for the Republican presidential nomination. The gift that keeps on giving.
For the University of Tennessee football squad: A first-quarter deficit in every game. Because those early leads just don’t seem to work out so well.
For Republican presidential candidate Ben Carson: A brand new Bowie knife. Perfect for fighting bears. Or just in case he has to cut a bitch.
For Pub/Scruffy City Hall Soundman Eric Nowinski: A new haircut. Because the ’80s just phoned, and the one he has is on recall.
For Scruffington Post: Double the readership. Which would bring us to four, total, assuming that mom is telling the truth.
For former Metro Pulse Staffers: A Patrick Birmingham doll. With lots of long, sharp pins.
For the Market Square Cafe: An opening date. Soon.
For E.W. Scripps Corporation: A storybook ending. The storybook being, “Enron and Other Corporate Fiascos.”
If by some chance I have failed to offend any of you with this little missive, then I have fallen grievously short of my objective. Because ’twas my fondest wish this Christmas season to piss off people of every color, creed, faith and footwear preference.
Now, go drink too much egg nog, loiter under the mistletoe and attack some poor unsuspecting soul with a big, fat sloppy kiss. I’ll see you in the New Year.