IN THE MOOD

As some of my readers know, I work in an industry which is subject to Xmas madness. Even though I am in the section of the company that cannot be considered all sweetness and light, fluffy bunnie wabbits, holly, elves, and jingly bells, I am "subject" to the same poisonously cheerfull atmosphere as everybody else.

[I actually do collection calls. No, I do not call up the widow Smith and tell her that unless she pays the last hundred bucks on the couch set 'we're coming over to repossess and we're gonna break your legs too bitch' - this is strictly business to business, and threats of violence are SO last century.]


But can I just say that this is my LEAST favourite time of year?

I mean, some overweight eunuch comes to town with bribes and candy for the little creeps, and all of a sudden everybody loses both their minds and whatever pretense of good taste they had, goes all sparkling apeshit over red tinsel, tinny children's' voices singing hymns to greed, ugly little statuettes and mock-ups of a primitive delivery room, sappy movies............

The questionable clothing taste of the corpulent superfreak raises no eyebrows. Wearing the same nineteen seventies greasy crimson leasure suit 24 and 365 is, inexplicably, not an issue. "Go over and tell him what you want, dearie."
This is normal? Feh. Try that on the bus sometime.

Little monsters press extensions at random in our phone tree to tell me what they expect to receive for Christmas from our company. And I (dot dot dot) "control myself". I am Scrooge, but I am wise enough to not go off all ballistic on their little fluffy heads.

Doing so would not be 'Christmassy'.

We're all about Christmas.

Instead I gibber on insanely about elves and reindeer and chimneys and north poles until they hang up in disgust - any adult who still believes in fairy tales cannot be trusted.


I do NOT like Christmas. I do not like the holidays. I do not like nog, mint brickle, rumcake, plumpudding, chestnuts, your crappy holiday family photo, being hugged by hairy aunt Augusta (she smells like the soap in a train station restroom!), the neediness, the tension, the headache, and the pressure. Please do not sing at me - you are so not musical, and I do believe I've already heard that miserable tune before. And, above all, you are welcome to the fat pervert - keep him at your house all night if you want to.

All you have to do is feed him little children.

[You didn't know that that was his game? Why did you think he was fattening-up the little brutes? Lulling them into complacency and sugar exhaustion? It was either that or something sexual...... ]


This is the time of year when I want to come down your chimney with a chain saw.

Still two days to go before the company party.

I am ready.