Thursday, December 3, 2009

Danny the Car-Wiper is on the Nod

I've always disliked Christmas, but in the last couple of years it seems like every twinkling light and jolly shopper is like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, every gayly wrapped package a reminder that no one really grows up, every shriek of delight and surprise a passive-aggressive assertion that all's well with the modern world and that Jesus didn't die in vain. Fed up, bloated with existential figgy pudding and heavy gravey, the stupidity and waste piling up like dead Asian catfish on a frozen Chicago beach, I want to spew the contents of ten thousand dead albatross chick-guts on the National Christmas Tree and fill every stocking with 'Cong ears and bandages from limbless Iraqi orphans.

Then, New-Years, the celebration of mindless drunken revelry, the passing and heraldry of another year of death-based consumption as Americans waddle into the future, fat, dumb and happy as cannibalistic chimps on a full moon, unknowing and uncaring of anything beyond what they can eat or fuck or stuff in their pockets. "On Dasher, on Dancer, Comet and Vixen", a turd down every chimney and a rotting corpse under every tree. Let the ball descend on cleaned-up Times Square squares and Williamsburg hipsters celebrating another trip around the old tired sun, while we Surge into another unenlightened Afgan pass; down through all eternity, the whining of humanity, a big mac in one hand and M-16 in the other. Thank god for Burroughs.

Merry Xmas to all, and to all a "Good Night!"

(Cross-posted on my team blog "No Short Counts"

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