I recall, as a child, regarding Christmas as nothing more than an acquistive and gastronomic opportunity, and enjoying it thoroughly. Sadly, in my teenage years, all the angst that accompanied that horrible time was channeled into a kind of iconoclast, puritan Christian piety that had me hating Christmas because it was a flagrant abuse of my deity's name to excuse a consumerist debauch.
Now, free of religion's multiple attendant psychoses, I hate it for a host of reasons.
Tacky, sentimental songs about... Christmas. It's self-referential to the point of an obsessive-compulsive brainlock, as though somehow merely adding the word Christmas (and some sleighbells) to yet another tawdry song about getting some pussy somehow adds something to the collective Christmas spirit. Then there's the "traditional" stuff. The "haunting", mediaeval-lite songs about angels and other shit. Sometimes sung by children for maximum emotional firepower. Worse, sung by some fucking multi-platinum pop whore who cannot end a verse without a "soulful" trill. And you can't escape it, it's fucking everywhere. Even your relatives feel obliged to play it at the fucking Christmas dinner.
Listen, I'd really rather keep and spend my own money on something I actually fucking want, and I'm sure you feel the same. Let's end this expensive, waseful fucking obligation. We can do it. Just say no.
Spending time using alcohol to take the edge off your relatives' boringness while hiding how drunk you are is not fun. Neither is the office party. The office party is not fun at all. You're expected to be cheerful about spending time with people you would never socialise with, who would never socialise with you, and enduring their fucking inebriated jollity as though it were very clever and amusing.
There's only so much grease and sugar you can ingest before you feel nauseous. I'm not sure why anyone gets enthusiastic about the traditional Christmas comestible accoutrements. I mean, if they were nice, we'd eat them at other times during the year, no? Turkey is a shitty meat. Fruit mince pies are nearly always utterly fucking vile.
Everyone's in a frenzy, road rage simmering in carbon-monoxide-choked parking lot queues. The decorations are a grim memorial to the remains of your bonus. The thing you want is sold out. The music is inescapable. The staff want to be elsewhere.
You lucky cunts in the northern hemisphere have it easy. You think Christmas is tough in winter? Try doing all this shit in 35°C.
We enslave them into the Christmas tradition by making their Christmas phantasmagorical. A debt they'll feel obliged to repay when they grow up. I hate your fucking brats at the best of times. I hate them and you to the point of bloody murder when you've got them sugared to Hell, dressed in painful finery and singing Away in a Manger and Silent Night to sate your need to sentimentalise the ungrateful little parasites. Fuck you. Fuck them. Fuck off.
No, He wasn't born on this day. No, He didn't die for my sins. No, He wasn't borne of a virgin. No, He probably wasn't a special, wonderful, non-screaming newborn. Take your cutesy child-indoctrination techniques out of my sight, please.
What's so fucking special about a shamelessly materialistic religious holiday that it requires that I donate more? Fuck you, you guilt-exploiting cunts. Fuck you and the limbless, hunch-backed midget you install in a wheelchair in the supermarket entrance to squeeze out more than my usual freely-given loose change by means of wretched, abject pity.
Merry fucking Christmas.