Life and Spite
She’s got a bitter pill for you to swallow and you just might like it. The Outlet would like to introduce you to Fritz, our newest regular contributor. Her column, Life and Spite, is a monthly journey into the ugly realities of life. It may be sweeter on the sunny side of the street, but it’s a hell of a lot funnier on Fritz’s block. Join her, won’t you?
By Fritz
Don't eat anymore fruitcake. You'll spoil the real present of the season—my monthly contribution of drivel dedicated to The Outlet. I sure as hell hope Santa wrote my name down on the right side of the list, otherwise I'm going to jack that asshole up. He's been stiffing me my whole life.
Actually, it's fitting to have a piece published in this twelfth month of the year. I hate Christmas more than any other holiday, so it gives me plenty to bitch about—and that's my shtick. No, it's not the tacky Nativity scenes that get my goat, nor is it the blatant commercialism of religion—it's the tinsel. For three months, I get to wander around in a tinsel-coated land of glitter, high-priced gadgetry and the overwhelming pressure to buy expensive shit for people I don't like. Plus, it's cold and dark outside. Cigarettes and vodka get me through the first third of the winter; then I get walloped by Christmas.
Everything turns red and green. There's Christmas-flavored coffee thanks to Starbucks—not only can Starbucks malign the flavor of natural coffee, it also has an intellectual-property clause on the flavor of Christmas. I can't buy a non-Christmas related item to save my godforsaken soul. When I'm not buying my regular item because I have to buy the Christmas equivalent of my item, I also have to do it while in a line of ninety other people who also hate Christmas. These lines forming all over our country right now are riots waiting to happen. I can't believe society hasn't spurned this notion of Christmas altogether—it's just that dangerous. Christmas is trying to kill us.
If you don't believe me, turn on your television right now. Right after the segment about the five-foot six-inch tall black dude that just raped your neighbor's dog and stole the Eiffel Tower, you'll see the story about Killer Elmo dolls and PlayStation 3 pandemonium. Before your very eyes, children, you'll learn the true story of Christmas—greed, gluttony, and envy. The really excellent part of this excursion into madness is the money you spend while trying to kill for that last toy/phone/MP3 gizmo. The average American will spend around $900 for Christmas, and that's $900 that should go to the student loan you've been ducking for the past two years. More than likely, you're going to put it on a credit card with an 18% interest rate. Next year, after you're done making resolutions about cutting back on spending and working towards the perfect life you've read about in The Secret, you'll get your first credit card statement and it will say, in big bold letters, "Hey, douche bag, you owe us $500 by
next month or else your interest fee will go up to 32% and if you still don't pay, we'll shoot you in your kneecaps and send you to debtor's prison." And your whole New Year is blown.
Then, there's the food.
All of the morning news shows will feature stories about the rise of diabetes and heart disease thanks to us fat Americans. Directly after the segment about fat Americans, a thin television personality come on the stage and cook a Christmas recipe which will include butter, lard, chocolate, and bacon grease. You will want to make this dish for your own family, and you will tell yourself that 'It's Christmas, and even though I just weighed in at 378 pounds, I can eat this dish on this one special holiday." But it's not just that one day, is it? The food starts in August and just builds from there. By Thanksgiving, Americans have become adjusted to eating three to four times their normal portion size. When Christmas hits, it's a typhoon of food. After you have ripped through the petroleum-based wrapping paper and ogled your overpriced thingy-ma-jigs, you will sit down to a meal that could feed thirty or forty members of a doomsday cult, and you and your quaint family of five will inhale the food, suffering the gastrointestinal consequences for the rest of the week. On New Year's Day, just as you're beginning to understand the financial hell where you have been doomed, you'll also realize none of your clothes fit anymore and that svelte 378 pounds of November just grew into 402 pounds of dimpled cellulite.
It doesn't stop: You've been having such a good time getting fat on unhealthy food, you've managed to convince yourself that going to church for the Christmas service won't be that bad. Sure, last year you sat behind a woman who ate a green bean casserole and then crawled into her hundred year old mink coat, smelling of deathly methane, but this year will be better. This year, you'll pound two or three glasses of wine before going to the service and you'll sing some Christmas tunes and you'll hear a happy story that makes you feel better about all the crap in the world; then you'll go home and sigh in relief because it's all done. This delusion will last for all of five minutes before you find yourself back at your parents' church, saying hello to the same old lady who is still wearing the fur coat all the while wishing you had a gas mask to breathe through the disgusting air she's exhaling. Nine thousand people will attend the same service as you and all of them will have the appearance of lambs before slaughter. The sermon will invariably ask you to give another lump of money to the offering plate, and you do, because you feel guilty for spending so much money and eating so much food. The clergyman's diatribe will include a moral lesson of taking advantage of the church during Christmas but not attending throughout the year. Additionally, you will be reminded that Christmas is not about food or presents—it's about love and a baby. Or something. By now, you're so depressed you've stopped listening. Perhaps you go into a diabetic coma right there in the church or maybe you wait until you get home. Either way, you collapse into melancholy and the real kick in the ass is December 26th.
December 26th is nothing more than the sad remains of a drunken orgy. Streamers are being pulled down from lampposts, food is being thrown out by the plateful and a million toys are already broken. Your fancy music gizmo doesn't work and you have to take it to the nearest chain store to return it and get a store credit for the overpriced thingy you really wanted, and those are all sold out. The crowds become even more dangerous, because everyone gets it: another twelve months of monotony is right around the corner. All in all, Christmas is the most depressing way to end a year and it really screws up the next one coming.
Happy Holidays, all. Hope the month unfolds in the warm-spirited splendor I'm currently experiencing. God bless us, everyone.
Bio: Fritz is a frustrated writer and a frustrated woman. She still smokes and is a passionate advocate for fellow smokers. Mostly, she's planning her next diatribe or her next knitting project. She lives and works in the Detroit Metro area, but she dreams in red. Her home includes one saintly husband and one demonic cat.
I'll put it out there like this: I don't bitch about the commercialization while I stand in line for a four dollar coffee. Period.
Because Irony is not my strong suit.
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I really enjoyed reading this. I absolutely hate Christmas, especially all the nonsense surrounding it. Do we really have to be in the Christmas spirit for an entire month? I think one day a year is bad enough. Anyways, just wanted to say it's good to know I am not the only Christmas hater.
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