ARE YOUR RELATIVES HAVING A BLACK ORGY?

Vast hordes of murderous shoppers descended growling on the mall, overwhelming the severely outnumbered security staff. Whom they ripped into tiny shreds with the spike-heels on their Manolo Blahniks. Like a swarm of fire ants they overran the place, leaving nothing but mayhem and despair in their wake.

Thus began the great Black Friday Zombie Orgy.

At least, that is how I fondly imagine the scene in Union Square and the various shopping centra of the Bay Area, at approximately half an hour after turkey this past Thursday evening. In this scenario, all of those places now resemble charnel houses, with twitching corpses ambulating glassy-eyed among the fabulous bargains, and scraps of flesh adhering to door jams, lintels, clothing racks, and battered shelving.

This blogger does not participate in shopping frenzies.

I've got better things to do than slash ferociously with my credit cards, disemboweling other women in my furious assault on the whimpering sales clerks.

I am a man, not a woman. I do not disembowel.
Men are gentle souls. Women aren't.
Not after Thanksgiving.


Right about now, at around nine o'clock on a Saturday evening, you are wondering where in hell your wife and daughters are. You also have other female relatives, like maiden aunties, and various in-laws, but you've given up on them; they're galumphing across the retail savanna in pursuit of terrified shmatte, blingities, and trinkets. But despite their cannibalistic tendencies, you still care bout your wife and daughters.
You are vested in them, as it were.
And their horrid habits.


If you are reading this, you are in the house alone. It is dark and oh so quiet, the television is off, and you're wondering if you should reheat some stuffing, or break off a piece of frozen three cheese pizza.
Which tastes perfectly fine dipped in Ranch Dressing.


Later, long after you have retired for the night, the women will return. Giddy from the hunt, as well as exhilarated from feeding on corpses, they will stumble in, waking the neighbors and making the dogs howl.
Blood-spattered, as if witnesses to a mid-winter sacrifice.
Torn clothing, glowing eyes, and red red talons.
They have won the war, huzzah.
More tomorrow.


Three more weeks!


AFTER WORD

In the past three decades I've worked both the retail and accounting side of the Holiday Season. Personally, I think most Americans are bonkers. Christmas carols are musical garbage, no one needs all that glittery crap, there's too much mediocre chocolate, and mob-shopping is an absolute drag.
Decide what you will give them all, whiz in, grab it and pay, get out.
Five minutes per gift. Even if you have a hundred greedy kinfolk,
that really should not take more than eight hours.
Less than two if you're efficient.

To really simplify things, just buy everyone a bottle of Tequila.
Even, most particularly, the teenagers and old people.
The young and decrepit have simple tastes.


Stocking up for the Holidays means lots of frozen convenience food, and several bags of high-sodium snacks. Perhaps a generator, and a hundred boxes of cartridges. Plus Ranch Dressing.
The living dead are out there.


Hello Kitty also figures into this, but I don't know how.
Maybe she is 'The Spirit of Christmas Feral'.



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