SPOUTING OFF!!!
TURN OFF YOUR FUCKING CELL PHONES AND JOIN THE WAR ON KWANZAA!
by Mort Poisson
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Bill O'Reilly says that wishing Happy Holidays to a Christian is
very offensive. I wonder what he'd think of me telling him to lick my
sack. - bigconig, Harmony Central
Goddamn it, I was hungry...but I had some important errands to run.
Usually I'm quite unfettered by the holidays. Sometimes I actually enjoy
them: wine, women, song...and food! This is supposed to be an article
about food. But there has been a whirling cloud of foolishness of late
that has unfocused my mind and sent me spinning away from thoughts of
the culinary.
Your intrepid Poisson has been mostly successful at ignoring this "War
on Christmas" twaddle that has become the rage among moronic
Christofascists. For one thing, I couldn't watch the dreaded Fox News
Network if I wanted to, since I pulled the plug on those cocksuckers a
year ago. And since this entire concept is another pussified whine fest
trumped up by the-oh-so-put-upon-evangelical Christian religions and the
shit stirrers at Fox, it, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with a
sane and rational individual like yours truly.
But that changed last week as I found myself trapped in a line at the
post office. Yes, even an unrepentant heathen like myself occasionally
feels compelled to offer holiday cheer to friends scattered far and
wide. I will brave the clog of nitwits lacking return addresses on their
parcels and those unenlightened citizens attempting to send pork
products to Iraq and mail off my humble offerings of good-will-to-men
(and mostly women). By and large I am successful at holding off the
feelings of frustration and waves of stress that accompany the frantic
yuletide tableau of jammed malls and endless post office lines. I,
Poisson, am much bigger than all of that. But this time I overheard a
conversation that set my teeth on edge and lit the fires of contempt
that I usually keep cooled during my not so holy holidays.
While patiently waiting for the guy with 300 small packages in a duffle
bag to complete his business, my attention was drawn to a second clerk
selling angel adorned stamps to an elderly lady.
"You know," he told her, eyebrow cocked, "these have been selling like mad since the war on Christmas started."
I could barely contain the bilious snort that strained against my
nostrils. "Not another one!" I thought. What is it with these zombified
twits? Why don't they just install a coaxial port into their craniums so
they will always know precisely what Rupert Murdoch wants them to do
and think? I've encountered this sort of predigested spew from talk
radio callers, ass sitting message board participants and in useless,
masturbatory blogs to the point where I now believe we are far beyond
Orwell and have actually entered the realm of Dante.
I gazed contemptuously at the lamb-of-O'Reilly civil servant as he
muttered evangelical platitudes to the old woman (hey...isn't this shit
against the law? Isn't he supposed to just sell me my goddamn stamps?),
so irritated by the sanctimony that the only thing I could focus on was
how much the fucker resembled the Flanders character from The Simpsons
cartoon.
Now let me say this right now: I don't care one whit what anyone chooses
to believe. Great desperate debates over the age and complexity of the
greencheese on the moon could occur without end, but if the zealots
refuse to allow their orthodoxy to spill into (and taint) my everyday
life, they may proceed with my best wishes.
What seriously scorches my nuts, however, is when a brainwashing du jour
of such speciousness as this "War on Christmas" horseshit takes hold of
the general population. Don't these people understand that this is
another non-existant shitstorm created by the likes of TV pundit and
professional buttplug Bill O'Reilly to enrage the less discriminating
among us, and,
thus, boost his ratings and his increase his fortune?
"War on Christmas"...sounds pretty ominous, does it not? Will jackbooted
Jews and murderous Muslims soon be kicking down our doors and
chainsawing our lovingly decorated trees? Will gangs of rampaging Hindus
be plunging daggers into shopping mall Santas as if they were retail
Julius Caesers? Will feral packs of atheists be wiping their asses with
our childrens' Christmas
stockings...you know, the ones our dear departed mothers crocheted while
incarcerated in some farflung nursing home?
"But, Poisson!" you may rationalize, "you are just a deluded liberal
living in a fantasy world of brotherhood and harmony." To which I shall
reply with a friendly "FUCK YOU!!!!"
Anyone who knows me knows quite well that I hold all cultish behavior
and thought in utter contempt. Since when did it become mandatory to
choose our holy political icons and stick with the assigned text of
positions and talking points?
"Oh...lets see...do I choose bloated sack of shit Rush Limbaugh, whose
hypocritical stand on everything from drug abuse to divorce to how he
makes his willy tingle renders him as useful as a colostomy bag on
corpse, or do I choose bloated sack of shit Michael Moore, whose razor
sharp journalistic insticts leads him to pester a senile Charlton Heston
and reveal to the world that Bob Eubanks is actually an asshole? Which
of these giants of political thought do I hitch my lorry to?"
Personally, I'm gagging sick of it; as sick as I am of twits on cell
phones running red lights (AMEN, BROTHER! PREACH ON...DR. MALITY); as
sick as I am of TV commercials that are five times
louder than whatever program I'm watching (didn't there used to be a law
against that?); as sick as I am of Paris Simpson, Jessica Hilton, Brad
Farrell, Colin Pitt, Who Wants To Fuck A Millionaire or whatever piece
of crap unreality show they are shoving at us; as sick as I am of Dick
Cheney's twisted mechanical sneer or George W. Bush's sociopathic smirk;
as sick as I am of Hillary versus Condoleeza (they both suck...and
neither as good as Monica from what I hear); as sick as I am of Joe
Biden's hair transplant and Sean Hannity's plastic blinking head; as
sick as I am of whatever worthless local restaurantuer thinks he is
celebrity of the year(Anybody we know?--Nudge-Nudge Mality); as sick as I
am of your blog or her message board.
Ah...but the pendulm shall swing, and if it doesn't, I shall still put
up my Pagan tree, wrap my Kwanzaa gifts, send out my Hannukah cards and
have a cup of Ramadan cheer.
There is no war on Christmas, so go tell Bill O'Reilly he can unclench his puckered little sphincter and relax...and tell him:
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
(Mort Poisson is our cheerful but sociopathic commentator on both food and folderol)
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