There Will Be No Christmas This Year

Christmas is on a stretcher.

The message seems to be…WHO CARES, something I find rather mystifying.

Maybe it’s the Connecticut in me, but I suit up every year, whether in the mood or not.

We must make the effort to be merry.

Who said why?

Because what’s the alternative? To just totally give up, even on Christmas?

I say nay.

Nay…listen to me. It’s all this impeachment business. Now I’m about to vote on the Senate floor with Nancy, who I so wish would change those pants.

It’s a nightmare, all of it, and I don’t say that out of sympathy for our Commander-in-Chief. I say it because, a lavish slap on the wrist won’t keep him from getting reelected. It’s like bad theater, or an exhibition game with all the players on steroids, yet it’s still selling out.

If P.T. Barnum were here he’d be hawking tickets in front of the Capitol.

He sure wasn’t kidding when he said, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute.’

I’ll say.

And it’s interfering with Christmas since Santa won’t leave Twitter long enough to hop in his sleigh, along with those lazy elves, who are more than happy to get fat collecting unemployment.

No one has even bothered to send cards.

Me?

Dozens.

Why?

It might make you feel a little cheerier?

Happy to be remembered?

Oh shit…just call me crazy.

I’ve gotten two. One from a girl who’s known me 20 years who spelled my name wrong, and another from the Gap, who spelled it right. What does that tell you?

I then went to help decorate a church’s tree, an annual event I look forward to, and left wanting to jump in front of a car. No one but me and an old lady who couldn’t see well showed up to help. Normally there’s a nice buffet with bagels and hot coffee. Instead there was a tin of cheap cookies you get with a full tank of gas, if you’re lucky enough to fill your tank in Jersey.

I’m not a fan of heights so seeing me on a ladder attempting to hang lights had a Hitchcockian feel to it.

Think Janet Leigh in the shower,  just in a turtleneck.

The highlight was when the in-house pastor’s French Bulldog ran in and proceeded to eat an ornament.

See, this is what happens when you’re expecting bagels with that holiday schmear.

I will admit, I too had a moment of Scroogeism when I had to tip all the building workers, circling like sharks for those extorted envelopes, but even then I rallied, writing little notes I so wanted to dip in Anthrax, but didn’t.

My suggestion is, deck those fucking halls, even if it kills you.

WHO SAID NAY?

SB