Thank Goodness It Only Kills Cats, Pt. 1
"Holy Cynicism, Batman... You had some pretty harsh words for humankind in your first post. It was your first effing post. Have you always been such a dick?"
I do apologize for that. The honest answer is... well... kind of, yeah. It's manifested itself in various ways depending on the period of my life we're discussing, but the underlying causal personality trait has always been the same.
To a harsher critic, it would seem as though my attitudes are laced with skepticism.
To a more sympathetic crowd (my mother comes to mind here), it's a much kinder word: curiosity.
When asked to describe yourself, especially at a certain point in your life, you could do a couple of different things: 1) compose a list of traits that you possessed at that time, or 2) tell a story that is very you. We all have these stories. They don't necessarily have to be long, but they say a lot. A list of personality characteristics will give people a pretty accurate idea of your attributes, but the right story will do an infinitely better job of capturing your very essence. My mom and dad recounted one such relevant story about me at the Thanksgiving dinner table just last week...
When I was a kid, my parents set up a night each year before Christmas where a man dressed as Santa (I can't remember who did it) would come to our house and give me and my brother and some of the other neighborhood kids some of our presents early. He would bring a couple elves to help him. We would hear jingle bells outside our door. When he came in side, he would bellow out a thundering "HO HO HO, MERRY CHRISTMAS." The other children would cheer and frolic about the living room while I hid behind my parents because LOUD. Man, this guy was loud. Somehow, it was as if the other kids didn't even notice. I don't care how excited you are about Christmas, this guy was horrifying. I pointed out to my mom that his name could be rearranged to spell "Satan." She looked at me, perplexed. She knelt to hug me and said, "Josh, it's ok... This is Santa. He's wonderful. He has presents for you!" But her eyes had another message for me: "Why are you like this? What is wrong with you?"
Alright... I was a little bit of a pussy. An alarmingly perceptive one, but still... Yeah.
Eventually, when he was finished terrorizing me, he would tell all of us that if we were good this year, we would get one of our presents early... TONIGHT! Holy shit... Talk about reliving the last year of your life in the blink of an eye... I was rapidly searching my memory for behavioral blemishes. The other kids in my living room, still frolicking away despite the immediate presence of Lucifer himself, partied like it was 1999. How did they know they'd been good enough? I was pretty sure each one of them, including my younger brother (and even some of his tougher stuffed animals), had bullied me several times that year. I had seen them be dirty, angry, whiny, punchy individuals all year long. I fancied them delusional; when they sat on Santa's lap and took his makeshift morality test they were gonna be in for a big surprise. I just knew it.
Enjoy your coal, bitches.
But they passed. They always passed. Even the ones who purposely sabotaged themselves. They would hold their finger out, and Santa would place the candy cane on it. If it stayed, you passed. If it swayed and fell, you tried again because bullshit. If you tried to stab Santa with the candy cane, the elves would subdue you with a powerful sedative, but still hold your finger out and pass the test for you.
I watched in horror as the nonsensical evaluation would result in rewards regardless of inherent goodness. I would go last. I always went last, when there was no more urine left in my bladder to pee into my pants. It was my turn, and mother of God I was nervous. I knew I wouldn't get my presents. I had to have done something awful. Instantly, I remembered leaving the toilet seat up once in June. NO. My mother had told me then that it was alright, to just try to remember to put it down next time. Dammit Mom, how could you lie to me?
I wondered if, like the other children, certain faults of mine would possibly be overlooked. Please, Satan... SHIT, SANTA, I'M SO SORRY.
I was a wreck. It all hit me at once. I remembered turning my homework into the wrong basket one time. I remembered having to be told twice to clean my room back in February. And I'll NEVER forget the look on my mother's face when I was reading the encyclopedia (I wish I was joking) and asked her where 'Niger' was. But I didn't say 'Niger.'
Dizzy and weak, I staggered towards the Man in Red. Like a nervous patient getting the results of his STD test back, I just didn't want to know. I would have rather watched Santa set my presents on fire with his eyes than take this godforsaken test. My mother lifted me onto Santa's lap as I experienced a massive phantom pants-wetting with everything but the actual urine. I closed my eyes. Somebody lifted my limp arm for me.
Everything went black.
I awoke in hell. No, never mind, this was definitely my bed, but it was dark as hell. The kind of darkness that only exists in the absolute absence of light, both outside and within you. I felt nothing but despair, and... and a... there was a small box next to me in my bed. There aren't usually boxes there, I remembered.
Coal. It had to be my coal. I deserve this. I was ready to know, so I opened the box and reached inside. This coal feels like friggin' newspaper. I turned on my bedside lamp, and confirmed my suspicions. It was newspaper. Recycling? Santa's either into conserving our precious natural resources or he's on a budget. It doesn't matter. I'm offended. No. Worse. I've been betrayed.
I let out a violent howl, throwing my arms in the air and hurling newspaper everywhere. Something crashed against the ceiling and fell to the floor. Something plasticky sounding. I peeked over the edge of my bed, and laying there on the floor, in all of his Mighty Morphin' glory, was my new Billy the Blue Ranger action figure (complete with Triceratops Zord). I would eventually collect all five and then some.
So I guess Santa wasn't so bad.
But was he who he said he was.......?
(TO BE CONTINUED)
I do apologize for that. The honest answer is... well... kind of, yeah. It's manifested itself in various ways depending on the period of my life we're discussing, but the underlying causal personality trait has always been the same.
To a harsher critic, it would seem as though my attitudes are laced with skepticism.
To a more sympathetic crowd (my mother comes to mind here), it's a much kinder word: curiosity.
When asked to describe yourself, especially at a certain point in your life, you could do a couple of different things: 1) compose a list of traits that you possessed at that time, or 2) tell a story that is very you. We all have these stories. They don't necessarily have to be long, but they say a lot. A list of personality characteristics will give people a pretty accurate idea of your attributes, but the right story will do an infinitely better job of capturing your very essence. My mom and dad recounted one such relevant story about me at the Thanksgiving dinner table just last week...
When I was a kid, my parents set up a night each year before Christmas where a man dressed as Santa (I can't remember who did it) would come to our house and give me and my brother and some of the other neighborhood kids some of our presents early. He would bring a couple elves to help him. We would hear jingle bells outside our door. When he came in side, he would bellow out a thundering "HO HO HO, MERRY CHRISTMAS." The other children would cheer and frolic about the living room while I hid behind my parents because LOUD. Man, this guy was loud. Somehow, it was as if the other kids didn't even notice. I don't care how excited you are about Christmas, this guy was horrifying. I pointed out to my mom that his name could be rearranged to spell "Satan." She looked at me, perplexed. She knelt to hug me and said, "Josh, it's ok... This is Santa. He's wonderful. He has presents for you!" But her eyes had another message for me: "Why are you like this? What is wrong with you?"
Alright... I was a little bit of a pussy. An alarmingly perceptive one, but still... Yeah.
Eventually, when he was finished terrorizing me, he would tell all of us that if we were good this year, we would get one of our presents early... TONIGHT! Holy shit... Talk about reliving the last year of your life in the blink of an eye... I was rapidly searching my memory for behavioral blemishes. The other kids in my living room, still frolicking away despite the immediate presence of Lucifer himself, partied like it was 1999. How did they know they'd been good enough? I was pretty sure each one of them, including my younger brother (and even some of his tougher stuffed animals), had bullied me several times that year. I had seen them be dirty, angry, whiny, punchy individuals all year long. I fancied them delusional; when they sat on Santa's lap and took his makeshift morality test they were gonna be in for a big surprise. I just knew it.
Enjoy your coal, bitches.
But they passed. They always passed. Even the ones who purposely sabotaged themselves. They would hold their finger out, and Santa would place the candy cane on it. If it stayed, you passed. If it swayed and fell, you tried again because bullshit. If you tried to stab Santa with the candy cane, the elves would subdue you with a powerful sedative, but still hold your finger out and pass the test for you.
I watched in horror as the nonsensical evaluation would result in rewards regardless of inherent goodness. I would go last. I always went last, when there was no more urine left in my bladder to pee into my pants. It was my turn, and mother of God I was nervous. I knew I wouldn't get my presents. I had to have done something awful. Instantly, I remembered leaving the toilet seat up once in June. NO. My mother had told me then that it was alright, to just try to remember to put it down next time. Dammit Mom, how could you lie to me?
I wondered if, like the other children, certain faults of mine would possibly be overlooked. Please, Satan... SHIT, SANTA, I'M SO SORRY.
I was a wreck. It all hit me at once. I remembered turning my homework into the wrong basket one time. I remembered having to be told twice to clean my room back in February. And I'll NEVER forget the look on my mother's face when I was reading the encyclopedia (I wish I was joking) and asked her where 'Niger' was. But I didn't say 'Niger.'
Dizzy and weak, I staggered towards the Man in Red. Like a nervous patient getting the results of his STD test back, I just didn't want to know. I would have rather watched Santa set my presents on fire with his eyes than take this godforsaken test. My mother lifted me onto Santa's lap as I experienced a massive phantom pants-wetting with everything but the actual urine. I closed my eyes. Somebody lifted my limp arm for me.
Everything went black.
I awoke in hell. No, never mind, this was definitely my bed, but it was dark as hell. The kind of darkness that only exists in the absolute absence of light, both outside and within you. I felt nothing but despair, and... and a... there was a small box next to me in my bed. There aren't usually boxes there, I remembered.
Coal. It had to be my coal. I deserve this. I was ready to know, so I opened the box and reached inside. This coal feels like friggin' newspaper. I turned on my bedside lamp, and confirmed my suspicions. It was newspaper. Recycling? Santa's either into conserving our precious natural resources or he's on a budget. It doesn't matter. I'm offended. No. Worse. I've been betrayed.
I let out a violent howl, throwing my arms in the air and hurling newspaper everywhere. Something crashed against the ceiling and fell to the floor. Something plasticky sounding. I peeked over the edge of my bed, and laying there on the floor, in all of his Mighty Morphin' glory, was my new Billy the Blue Ranger action figure (complete with Triceratops Zord). I would eventually collect all five and then some.
So I guess Santa wasn't so bad.
But was he who he said he was.......?
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Comments
Post a Comment