Things you don’t do:
Tug on superman’s cape
Spit into the wind
Pull the mask off the ol’ Lone Ranger
Mess around with Jim
Attempt to post stuff to a blog every day for two consecutive months when said months are laden with holiday-related travel/responsibilities/angst/general crapola*.
It’s been years since I last sent any out Christmas cards, but for some reason, this year I decided to make an attempt to re-engage. Not only have I not sent the cards out yet, I haven’t even written the letter. I haven’t even bought the cards yet. This will happen today. I’ve been assured by people in the know that the only boxes of cards remaining will be those whose message and artistry are both witless and trite. Therefore, my orgy of procrastination has relegated me once again to a hell of my own making where some people will not only receive the cards after Christmas, but will also be insulted by the card’s lack of ingenuity.
This means that the letter has to be a work of art. It has to be so moving, so profound, so full of lofty prose regarding where the hell I’ve been for the last X number of years that it causes the reader to forget about the sucktastic nature of the card (probably a drawing of santa hugging a kitten or a rosey-cheeked urchin holding a candle and looking grateful). No pressure. And how far back in time do I go in updating people on my life’s trajectory? Years? Weeks? This morning? ‘I had a waffle for breakfast. It was lovely. I can feel you coveting my waffle.’ That’s not prose. It doesn’t sing.
More importantly, can you not see what’s happening right now? I’m unwilling to write about eleven things my life doesn’t need in 2011, but can instead ramble on about Jim Croce lyrics and waffles? And this I do rather than writing the fucking letter?
11. I need to use ‘fuck’ less often as an adjective and more as an adverb or possibly a transitive verb.
And have I mentioned how much I hate jewelry commercials? They’re insultingly awful throughout the year, but never more so than around the holidays. The Kay Jewelers ones are bad enough, but no one can hold a candle to those shitheads over at Jared. Oh, everyone’s so impressed because the guy bought some chick an overpriced sparkly rock! Every kiss begins with some shmuck going into into debt! I hate those commercials so fucking much (adverb!).
Behold my powerlessness against the aforementioned orgy.
* If I ever write a novel about the military, two of the characters will be General Crapola and his executive officer, Major Bootlick von Sackscratcher. It will not be a good book.
Sir @ December 19, 2010