Sorry to goosberry here, folks, but at some point every holiday eventually manages to push me over some hidden line into destructive territory. Today has just crossed that threshold. I have no time for fscking religious holidays or any holidays with expectations and responsibilities this high.
Give me fscking Arbor fscking Day any old fscking time, because on that day, ain’t nobody gonna expect nothing of me and I can celebrate it however the fsck I want to without having to worry about anyone else’s precious Arbor Day traditions or fscking Arbor Day fscking generosity or whatever.
And don’t call me a grinch. I gave big bucks to the charities this year when I heard they were struggling to meet their holiday needs. I rang a bell for a while so someone could take a break. Okay, so those things alone doesn’t make me a fscking saint. But how many of you cared even enough to give? Apparently not enough of you, or they wouldn’t have been so short. No, I don’t mean did you “give” to your wealthy friends who are giving shit to you in return, I mean give.
Always at some point on this holiday, somebody in the family just won’t fscking quit and it begins to be about my responsibility, not to the poor and hungry of the world, but to the fragile, selfish expectations of wealthy westerners — expectations about what this holiday is supposed to be: the one day of the year when they manage to have a good mood, and all because for a moment they can pretend that they don’t actually ignore all of their family and friendship ties the other three-hundred-fscking-sixty-five days of the year. All because they’re gonna get a pile of free shit that nobody needs from people they never see.
Well fsck that. Next year I’m hanging out all fscking x-fscking-mas day in the fscking homeless shelter, helping people who really fscking matter and who really fscking need my help.
This has been my x-mas rant. Happy holidays, you wealthy Americans. I can’t bear to smell 99.5% of you.