by Mort Poisson

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:


(Mort Poisson is our cheerful but sociopathic commentator on both food and folderol)