When I Was a Young Man

I looked forward to Christmas a lot.

I trusted in all the old traditions: the man in the red suit, driving a chariot pulled by feral beasts of yore, meting out justice and vengeance to the worthy and unworthy.  Back then, though, we had happier names for them.  Santa Claus.  Rudolph.  Naughty.  Nice.

And I heeded their rules.  I left out a cookie for Santa and a glass of milk.  I also left out a carrot for Rudolph, too.  My father didn’t like carrots, though.  So when I came down the next morning, I found the cookie and milk gone, but the carrot still there.  I was upset.  What had I done to offend him?  Why had I been snubbed by Rudolph?  I was depressed for as long as it took to open my first present.  A fleeting moment, but one that did not go unnoticed.

When the next year rolled around, I went down to the living room.  The cookie was gone.  The milk was gone.  The carrot was gone.  All that Rudolph had left behind was a steaming brown turd, long gone cold.

My father has a peculiar sense of humor.

For the next four years, my Christmas had a new tradition.  The presents were anticipated.  The old ways were obeyed.  And each Christmas morning, my sisters and I would rush to the living room and be excited beyond belief that there was a giant piece of shit above our stockings.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it.  Happy Channukkah.  Happy Kwanzaa.  Enjoy your family if you’ve got it.  Enjoy the time off, regardless of what you’ve got.  Be excellent to each other.

Or I will fucking kill you.