THE RED BASTARD

As you know, the next four weeks will be insufferable, with tinkly music, horrid televison shows, avalanches of saccharine drivel, alcoholic friends, coworkers, and fellow Romans, and people wearing red fairy outfits. As a grouchy atheist with no relatives to whom I am close, no actual family consisting of a loving wife, two and a quarter children plus dog cat and goldfish, or an orphanage nearby that thinks of me as a kindly uncle who is periodically generous, naturally the entire holiday season means approximately bupkes to me.

Also, I do not own an ugly sweater.

The one thing which Christmas means to me is remembering a coworker one year realizing that chocolate covered bacon in a giftbasket from the salesreps was actually a bad idea.
But only after eating it.

It was quiet in the office between Christmas and New Year, and the gift baskets with crackers, cheese, and strange ideas were in the company kitchen.
I did not know cheese came in a glass jar.
Or cranberry flavour.

For me, the entire slew of christmas flavoured drinks in coffee shops, mediocre baked goods, bad once a year candies, and festive aromatic pipe tobaccos are all a blight.
Yule fragrance bathroom airfreshener spritz?

No wonder so many people seek therapy in January.


Honestly, the only good thing about Christmas, and it is very good, are the selections of excellent cheese that appear, magically, at small quiet parties hosted by fellow cynics.
There is cheese. Maybe some garlic shrimp. Classical music.
No simple-minded carols or crappy brickle candy.
There might also be some pork products.
Nothing says fat man like pâté.
There is no singing.



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