"Going Postal Under the Mistletoe”
by Paul T. Riddell
Yes, it’s the Christmas season. It’s the goddamned Christmas season. It’s the one time of year where everyone parrots that “Peace on Earth, good will toward men” crap while blasting away with a MAC-10 at the zombies at the shopping mall. Best of all, it’s the time where embittered journalists either complain that everyone’s forgotten The Reason for the Season (namely, to engage in drunken debauchery in the name of Saturn, Kali, or Quetzacoatl), or kvetch about the pointlessness of the whole holiday. In the former case, the whining is because nobody invited said journalist to the really good parties because s/he wanders around with a mouth tighter than a chicken’s rectum; in the latter, it’s because said journalist won’t get what s/he really wanted, because most people don’t think of a case of Scotch and a good buggering as a suitable Christmas present.
It must be said, however, that while the holiday season causes at least twice as many suicides as it prevents (especially upon the discovery of plans to let Aunt Edna, the relative who smells of cheese, stay with you until Groundhog’s Day), it is possible to have fun during the Christmas season. All that’s required is a modest budget, a bullshit meter with a hair trigger, and a loathing of hypocrisy as wide as a bus.
The first and easiest way to mess with the minds of your fellows is to go straight for the kids. Ever tire of the parents who feel compelled to take their children into toy stores at Christmas, and then tell them “No” over and over again until the kid starts crying? Just follow a few of these parents around, and then purchase a toy that the kid particularly wanted and wait near the exit. As the family starts to pass by, make a point of giving the child that toy and then leaving: this not only drives the parents berserk, because they can’t really forbid a gift given with the best of intentions, but it teaches the kid that some strangers can be trusted. Either way, that family will never be the same.
We all have stories of parking lot madness at the mall. Yes, nobody really wants to park waaaaaay out in the boonies and then hike to the mall entrance via ski or dogsled, but the number of twits who feel that they’re obligated to wait for someone to vacate a space keeps growing every year. The ones that merely block a whole lane, with the blinker signifying that that space is THEIRS, are bad enough, but the obnoxious yuppies who start honking if the subject of their displeasure should hesitate are a pimple on the arse of humanity. Seeing as how these are the same slobs who cut to the front of lines inside because “I’m in a hurry”, a judicious dollop of justice is in order.
The perfect implementation of this stunt requires a parking space as close as possible to a mall entrance, preferably on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, and a working car. Should you feel the urge to shop at a mall in that terrible period between the fourth Friday of November and December 24, please indulge yourself, or just simply go wandering around. The idea is to come back to the car periodically, to drop off packages or just to stretch your legs, and get inside. In a crowded situation, a long line immediately forms as idiots jockey for that space, so pull out a newspaper or a book and start reading. Every once in a while, look back at the ever-growing crowd and return to the paper. Should any yuppie start honking, imploring you to bestir thy ass so they can divest themselves of their ill-gotten gains, simply get out of the car, lock it up, and go back inside the mall, in full sight of the honker. The general facial expressions range from incredulity to rage (the more high-scale the mall, the greater the rage), but they’re all absolutely priceless. Repeat as necessary, or until the frustration of fighting holiday crowds overtakes the satisfaction of teaching yuppies that they can’t have everything they want.
If torturing business majors is too easy, a great way to relieve stress and appear on television is to watch for the inevitable news story about some religious group complaining because the local government won’t let them set up a nativity scene on public property. Make a point of supporting their position in public . . . and then demand equal access for non-Christian religions. Generally, even the most fanatical Baptist will start shrieking “separation of church and state” if equal time for religion means having to share space with Wiccans, no matter how valid a case the Wiccans have, and a dedicated prankster could have real fun with supporting the rights of members of the Esoteric Order of Dagon to display their faith on public land. After staring at a 20-foot effigy of Nyarlathotep the Crawling Chaos hanging over the Baby Jesus, most fanatics will go out of their way to keep public areas secular areas.
And then there’s the subject of parties. Most Christmas parties are insanely dull affairs, with everyone slumping around, sipping eggnog, and trying to fondle each other’s spouses under the mistletoe. Offer an alternative for those deathly sick of Christmas carols and sleigh rides. Stock up on unorthodox chow and invite the neighbors and relatives over for a night of deranged videos. I usually find that serving barbecue and ribs during a screening of “Dawn of the Dead” works wonders for banishing the last of the Christmas spirit. Whatever runs, from “Naked Lunch” to “Meet the Feebles”, the movies and food will have the desired effect of causing people to care for each other because they want to, and not because of familial or religious guilt trips. Besides, it keeps minds off the idea of renting an anti-aircraft gun, putting it in the back yard or on the roof, and waiting for the first glimmer of Rudolph’s shiny nose.
Any way you want to look at it, Christmas can be a bear, or it can be a blast. The trick to getting through the season is to keep remembering that Easter is just around the corner, when we all commemorate the day Christ rose from His grave, looked down at His shadow, and realized that He had to wait six more weeks until spring.
Copyright © 1999 Paul T. Riddell All Rights Reserved
Paul T. Riddell is a Michigan-born, Texas-raised essayist currently residing in a fortified ranch on the slopes of Mount Briscoe overlooking downtown Dallas. For more abuse, please feel free to visit “The Healing Power of Obnoxiousness” at http://www.hpoo.com.