the war on christmas (shoes)

If you have ever had the misfortune of finding your radio dial stuck on some conservative talk show or, worse, your TV inexplicably tuned to Fox News, then you have probably heard some blowhard babbling on about The War on Christmas.  Now I’m not sure about the specifics of this particular war as it doesn’t involve 9/11 American-hating terrorists or red-and-green plaid awareness ribbons, but from what I can gather based upon the two-and-a-half minutes of research I did on Wikipedia, it has something to do with putting the Christ back in Christmas.

These fringe lunatics like to speechify about how wishing you Seasons Greetings is an unconstitutional affront to your God-given American-right to be wished Merry Christmas.  They argue that the tree on display at the public courthouse where the manger used to be is a big old anti-American (possibly homosexual) kick in your Christian groin.  But that, friends, is a lie.  Oh, I’m not saying The War on Christmas isn’t real.  It is real.  As real as Kim Kardashian’s humanity.  But this war has nothing to do with Christ or Kardashian.  This war is about one thing and one thing only: The Christmas Shoes.

For those of you not in the know, The Christmas Shoes is a “song” about a little boy who wants to buy his soon-to-be dead mother a new pair of shoes so that she can avoid embarrassment when she meets Jesus later that night.  The details are sketchy, but the implication is that Jesus either has a footwear fetish or he’s just been named Joan Rivers’ replacement on Fashion Police.  (It’s also possible that the line when mama meets Jesus tonight hints at a clandestine Jesus-Mother rendezvous, but I rather doubt that.)

Anyway I’m never quite sure why the boy doesn’t just go to the Salvation Army and buy her a used pair of Doc Martens or at least try Famous Footwear for a pair of knock-off Christian Louboutins, I mean, do you even need shoes in heaven?  Whatever the case may be, it’s up to an educated wealthy white guy to save the day.  It’s basically the plot of The Blind Side, except the black kid is a white boy and Sandra Bullock is Rob Lowe (or at least was in the Lifetime movie version of the song).

The “song” is written and performed by some “singing group” called New Song.  Now I don’t know who these New Song people are — although a quick Google image search suggests that New Song might actually be Christian music-speak for closeted homosexual —  but let me just say this: New Song is dangerous and they must be stopped.

They and their saccharine-sweet lyrics and their nonsensical narratives and their bland optimisms and their lazy rhyming (time/line, out/about if you’re Canadian).  Understand that New Song, and New Song alone, is the real enemy to Christmas.  Not the clerk at Rite-Aid who had the politically-correct audacity to wish you A Happy Holidays even though she knows you to be a Merry Christmas-loving Christian and not some Hanukkah-celebrating Jew or, worse, a 9/11 American-hating terrorist.

New Song should offend us.  When they sing, I knew I’d caught a glimpse of heaven’s love as he thanked me and ran out/I knew that God had sent me that little boy to remind me what Christmas is all about, we should all stab out our eyes in collective protest.  I don’t care how not cynical you are, I don’t believe for one minute anyone truly buys into this pre-fab feelgoodery.

The War on Christmas?  Oh, it’s on.

the week that was

The biggest news this week was that I had a cold sore.  Left to wander the rain-soaked streets of Pittsburgh like a syphilitic 19th century whore, my oral Scarlet A told a story. It let people know that I had been places.

Of course worse than actually having a cold sore is having to go to the store and buy cold sore medication.  I was a bit unnerved to discover that Rite-Aid keeps these medications locked up and that if you want to buy them you have to go up to the sales clerk and say, “I need to purchase some medication for my fever blister which is NOT herpes despite how many questionable sex acts I engaged in while in college.”

I was applying the shame salve when Chris asked if he could borrow my ChapStick.  I told him it was not ChapStick and then hid it on an upper shelf after having a vision of my eight year old in his room smearing herpes meds all over his face.

Also of note this week was the election.  A former talk radio and cable news junkie, I no longer partake in political catnipping as it left me with the urge to gather up all Republicans and hold them prisoner in a raunchy gay sex club/third trimester abortion clinic.

The truth is I only know there was an election because Facebook (from where I get all my news) told me about it.  Or rather, the people in my newsfeed (who apparently invented voting) took pictures of themselves with stickers that said “I voted”.  Sigh.  I’m currently printing up stickers that say: “This is NOT herpes.”

I think it’s great that you voted and I love a sticker as much as the next 5 year old, but I noticed as the day went on that it went from statuses of “I just voted!” to “I voted.  Have you?!” to “I’m morally superior to you because I voted.” to “People who don’t vote should be held prisoner in a raunchy gay sex club/third trimester abortion clinic.”  Hey, whatever.  I could use a vacation.

I just wish people could vote and shut up about it.  Why does it have to be a “thing”? Why does it have to be cool?  Why does it have to be celebrity endorsed?  Why does it need a sticker?!?!

Halloween was also this week(ish).  For the second straight year it rained.  This did not deter a skeleton-clad Chris who was determined to fill up his 37-gallon plastic pumpkin with enough candy to feed all those Republicans I’m currently holding prisoner at my raunchy gay sex club/third trimester abortion clinic.

As someone who came to this parenthood thing a little late in the game, I have to say that walking around in the cold, wet dark for two hours while my kid becomes pre-diabetic is, well, kind of awesome.  It’s one of those moments I never thought I’d get to have: trick-or-treating with my kid.

I do hate that the only time I seem to truly big picture my life is during these seminal moments.  Trick-or-treating.  Christmas.  Birthdays.  It makes me a little sad that I take for granted the every day.  That each moment isn’t significant.  But then I think of my instagram feed with its “I voted” pictures of mugging adults and I realize: not every thing in life can be a sticker moment.