That insane, screaming woman in red with the flattest butt I have ever seen shows up on my TV screen. This is not coming from being jealous, but if you didn’t see the Black Friday commercial (over and over and over again) then you will have no idea what I am talking about. Now, I am jealous about that. Yes, Target, I want to thank you for bringing back into my nightmares every boggy woman who ever tried to slip me in between my mattress and inner spring when I was a young girl. That totally insane blond lunatic who screamed about sales wins the cracked (with sharp, potentially deadly edges) ornament award. I hope she is a bleeder. If you see her on the Christmas commercials – stare directly into the sun. It will be less painful.
I know I should boycott TV during this time of the year, but then I wouldn’t know how many women didn’t rat out a politician until he was running for president. It’s okay to let the vermin out of the trap when he is relatively unknown. You better not get a book deal. The heads of every deserving future author will be exploding to the 12 Days of Christmas.
Why does every holiday song have to be re-recorded? I know I will be stalked by Justin Bibber fans, but you can’t listen to the classics? They are really quite good. Call me old-fashioned. No, I take that back. Come to my house and let’s compare the versions. I’ll take out my Christmas in the Stars: Star Wars Christmas album and let’s see who wins. And then we can share a bowl of spiked egg nag while singing along to the Gangster Rap Oh Holy Night CD.
When you ask someone who you have to buy a present for and they sheepishly reply, “I don’t need anything” or my favorite, “No, really, don’t buy me anything.” Why can’t we take them at their word? Why would they lie to us? For the record, I carry a list around on me 365.242199 days of the year. All you got to do is ask.
When you go down to the basement and you discover that a few of your cats have been playing hockey with a kitty poop. I know this has nothing to do with the holidays; it just gets on my nerves.
When those holiday cards start to show up in the mailbox and out slips a typed holiday letter ranting about the most perfect marriage and kids in the whole universe. One of the best things my late father ever did was to retaliate and write his own “Bad Santa” holiday letter. I think I was pregnant for 15 years in a row and most of my other siblings were in and out of treatment centers. My mother was not amused, and could be heard singing through clenched teeth, “Hail the new, ye lads and lasses, for you get nothing but coal in your stockings. Fa la la la la, la la la la.”
And finally, can somebody buy me a damn Lexus? I don’t need another stinking pair of leg warmers. The 80s are long over.
I can just hear Ebenezer Scrooge questioning why everyone got on his case about how he observed the holidays.
God bless us everyone.
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