It’s not even November yet and my nose is already bleeding a cheery poinsettia red from the tiny confetti scarf edges scraping my mucous membrane. Joy and merriment drip down into my teeth as I scroll past your pathetic #happyfallyall pics. While you waste your time dicking around with those two losers, Halloween and Thanksgiving, I’m over here snorting holiday trimmings, drinking snow globes, and holding the title of “Most Festive Facebook Friend” because Christmas reigns supreme, you heathens, and I go balls to the wall.
I’ve got an advent calendar that starts in July and every door opens to a Honeybaked Ham. I legally married a life-sized nutcracker and made our baby out of marzipan stollen. I exfoliate with shattered ornaments. But that’s a real fun ghost decoration you made.
Have I mentioned that I eat tinsel for breakfast?
I know you can’t wait for that God-like feeling you amateurs get from desecrating a pumpkin and scraping out its innards onto old newspaper, but try leveling up to deboning a bludgeoned reindeer carcass in your hatchback. The glory will be yours when you have the town’s most authentic lawn display with twinkle lights weaving in and out of the reconstructed rib cage. Oh, and jerky. You’ll have a butt-load of jerky. The neighborhood kids will love when you regale them with the classic story of Rudolph’s final flight before Kris Kringle eviscerated and dehydrated him into teriyaki-flavored treats for his co-workers. But you lack the sack and aggression to do much more than make mediocre pumpkin pancakes from a box.
I bet you’re like my sister who keeps telling me I don’t need to go so far to prove my Christmas prowess – and also that celebrating holidays aren’t a competition – but I can’t listen to anyone who doesn’t know the euphoria that comes from free-basing Home Depot brand Christmas tree flocking. And she’s not getting weekly Egg Nog colonics, so she doesn’t know what Christmas feel like from the inside out, like I do. She’s never shit cinnamon sticks before because she’s not celebrating in every orifice. Before you point the finger at me, I’ve tried to include her by offering to share my gingerbread latte douche recipe, but she just backs away without blinking. She might as well be a Seventh Day Adventist with that party-pooper attitude.
I’ll admit though, I did take it too far last year, at the Yankee Candle store. The smell of their Christmas Cookie votives brought me to my knees, so I poured the hot, liquid wax into a syringe and shot it in my arm right there across from Wetzel’s Pretzels. Jingle bells in my veins. That high was worth the arrest, although my confetti dealer, Tina (who is also my mistletoe dealer) had to bail me out. But I gave her one of my 85 holiday hams, three pounds of my famous candy cane hashish, and a giant fuckin’ Snoopy inflatable and then we were good again.
But here’s the thing: I’m sick of everyone half-assing their holiday spirit while I’m full tilt committed. Christmas deserves our undivided attention, which is why I’ve wired my Rav4 to blow Manheimm Steamroller at an ear-bleeding decibel, year round. What even are Halloween and Thanksgiving other than stumbling blocks to a holiday that breeds the ultimate cheer, goodwill, and ginormous ornament balls in front of Nordstrom that I may or may not have stolen three years back? (Shoutout to Tina again.) Go big or go home, people. Like when I inevitably go to urgent care with a raging nasal infection and the doctor will look at my nostrils through his scope. Puzzled, he’ll exclaim, “There’s mother loving snowmen up there!” And that’s when I’ll slap him on the thigh and shout in my best Santa-like tone, “Me-rry Christmas, Doc!” and then sneeze seasons greetings and AB+ blood all over the room.
But those Christmas cards you’re gonna design in Shutterfly are real nice.