The Big Bean is one of my favorite people in the world.
And last night, he almost killed me with his toenails.
For years I’ve joked about his poor foot grooming habits, complaining (mostly in jest) that the nails were too long and too strong, the jagged bits dangerously sharp (but probably convenient when climbing). I’ve called him names like Fred Flintstone and Tarzan. I’ve asked him to fetch me a bunch of bananas from the tallest tree in the forest. I’ve even laughingly speculated that his gnarled talons could be used as weapons, suggesting he try his luck in a cockfight.
It was all in fun. It was all just jokes.
But I’m not joking anymore, y’all.
Last night I was sound asleep, lost in happy dreams when the man I love moved beside me, shifting for a more comfortable position. As he adjusted, one hirsute, briery foot grazed the back of my leg. I woke to the pain of a craggy, serrated shiv attempting to slice – yes, slice – across my Achilles’ tendon. I cried out in shocked terror.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he squawked, immediately realizing the enormity of the situation. He knew, with that one quick movement, the dangers we’d both just faced: mine, Death by Toenail; his, a lifetime of tragic guilt.
If he’d been just a *few* inches closer, pushed just a *little* bit harder, those hairy, malformed claws could have pierced *right* through my skin. An artery could have been punctured. I could have bled out before he reached 911. In my shaken mind, the story plays out…
The paramedics arrive to find a grisly scene: my legs, cold and paled by death, jut out from beneath the covers, drenched in blood; the Big Bean, head in hands at the edge of the bed, stares blankly at his wooly, leathered feet as he rocks himself and mindlessly mutters, “should’ve clipped ‘em, should’ve worn socks,” over and over and over.
There but for the grace of god go I.
A couple of weeks ago, our seven-year-old son had his first pedicure. It wasn’t a planned event – I was there to have my own toes done and he was with me, so it seemed like a good idea to let him join in. After all, while wonderful in all the other ways, he did inherit his dad’s ridiculous Captain Caveman feet – and as long as he’s still a snuggler, why take chances? He enjoyed it, too, flirting with the pedicurist and giggling when she reached the ticklish parts… and in the end he walked away with neat feet, softer than they’d been since his newborn baby days.
As far as I was concerned, this was a win-win. The Big Bean scoffed when I told him, but we both knew he didn’t have a gnarly, hairy foot to stand on.
The Big Bean isn’t scoffing anymore. In fact, he’ll soon be receiving a pedicure of his very own, alongside me and his son. Sometime this afternoon, he will find himself ass-planted in an oversized massage chair, voice trembling wildly as his back receives the rough knead-and-pound treatment. A slight woman speaking in a foreign tongue will do her best to tame the hideous beasts a-soak before her. It will not be her best day.
No, it won’t be easy for any of us – but we will all survive.
The pedicurist will walk away with sore arms, a healthy tip and a feeling of great accomplishment.
My husband will emerge a better man, no longer a slave to the grotesque, monstrous deformities keeping him off balance. Able to run free, free from the thorny mess that’s always lurked below, just waiting to trip him up.
And I will finally be able to sleep in peace, no longer cowed by the fear of a painful, bloody nighttime death.
With my own soft, closely trimmed, coral-painted toes, I am finally taking a stand.
It is time.
Wish us luck.
I don’t often do giveaways. In fact, I’ve only done one giveaway on this blog that I can remember, and that was like six years ago when I still had a Blackberry. I gave a $5 gift card to the first person who correctly identified the mysterious booger-like substance I found on my desk. (Correct answer for the curious: Lotion spooge.)
So clearly I’m not an expert in the giveaway department.
But when I met this amazing jewelry designer named Ryan Sadkin, I knew I had to do one. Because Ryan Sadkin, being not only an incredibly talented designer but also just an all-around super-hot and very nice chickster, gave me a gorgeous necklace from her collection, specifically for a giveaway.
And here it is:
Isn’t it just GORGEOUS? Of course it is. Don’t you just LOVE it? Of course you do. Wouldn’t it make the perfect Mother’s Day gift? Of course it would.
The only thing I can think of that *might* make a *better* Mother’s Day gift is a copy of my book, which you should already have, and if you don’t, shame on you and here is a link.
Anyway. Because this necklace is such a rad gift, I am totally giving one to myself this Mother’s Day. And I’m also giving one to YOU, if you win this little contest of mine.
All you have to do to enter is leave a comment on this post, telling me something about moms. It can be anything. Tell a funny story. Write a silly poem. Just say “I love my mom” or “I miss my mom” or “Moms are the bombs” or “Word to yo mutha” or “Know who would love that necklace? MY MOM,” a la Muscle Man.
Whatever. I don’t care. Just say something.
You can also earn extra entries by:
- Liking my book’s Facebook page and letting me know here that you did.
- Sharing my book’s Facebook page and letting me know here that you did.
- Sharing this post or the book on Twitter with the hashtag #beejisawesome.
- Sending me a video of you twerking.
- Not suing me when I post that video on every social media channel I can think of.
You have until Sunday at noon. So get moving, y’all. Good luck, and happy accessorizing!
P.S. Can’t forget the fine print:
No purchase necessary. Contest ends at 12:00 pm Sunday, May 11. Contest open to legal residents of the U.S. and Canada who are at least 18 years of age at the time of entry. Entries without contact information will be disqualified. Entries that do not follow contest specifications will be disqualified. Entries that include this link will be disqualified.
Winner will be selected by Random.org on May 11 and the winner will be notified on the same day. Winner must respond with his/her mailing address or shipping information with 48 hours of notification, or another winner will be randomly chosen. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED.
Tags: do you feel lucky
|IF YOU…||I WILL…|
|Hold the door open for me||Thank you profusely|
|Do NOT hold the door open for me||Thank you anyway, with dripping sarcasm|
|Tell me what to do||Take great pleasure in doing exactly the opposite of whatever you just said|
|Tell me I can’t do something||Prove you wrong|
|Cut me off in traffic||Wait until I’m next to you again, then casually scratch my nose… with my middle finger|
|Ask me what time it is||Answer with either, “MILLER TIME!” or “Time to make the donuts”|
|Become famous simply because you have big tits, a big ass, big hair or big money||Never never never watch you on TV|
|Apologize with sincerity||Accept, no questions asked|
|Break my heart||Eventually get over it, but never really recover completely|
|Make my son cry||FUCKING KILL YOU, then hate you forever (Adults)Imagine FUCKING KILLING YOU, shoot death daggers at you with my eyes, then hate you and your parents forever (Children)|
|Insult me||Pretend it doesn’t bother me, go to the bathroom and cry, then avoid you like the plague|
|Ignore me||Make a complete fool of myself as I try desperately to prove that I’m worthy of your attention|
|Are too nice to me||Be suspicious|
|Intimidate me||Talk reallyreallyfastaboutnothing and make a lot of unnecessarily loud, stupid jokes, then admonish myself for WEEKS for being such an ass|
|Compliment me||Feel uncomfortable|
|Send me to voice mail||Leave a very long, rambly message wherein I repeat myself at least seven times, then finally identify myself just as it cuts me o–|
|Make me laugh out loud||Love you forever|
|Marry me||Never leave you (at least, not for 17 years so far)|
|Have my back||Be your loyal, true friend for the rest of my life|
|Hurt one of my friends||Come at you like a fucking spidermonkey on crack|
|Play “She’s a Maniac”||Dance like a maniac|
|Play “The Safety Dance”||Do the Safety Dance|
|Play country music||Complain|
|Play anything by Duran Duran||Bitterly recall (again) the story of how I was unceremoniously tossed out of the Duran Duran fan club at my school in the 5th grade|
|Play anything by Aretha Franklin||Sing along loudly, and badly|
|Unfriend me on Facebook||Gasp, feel hurt, get mad, then block your ass forever even though you’ll never notice or care|
|Leave a comment on this post||Like you|
|Give me a deadline||Wait until the very last minute, then totally freak out and stay up all night to get it done, acting like a total asshole to anyone who dares to talk to me while I’m on deadline.|
|Drive past a cemetery with me in the car||Inform you that people are just DYING to get in there, then laugh hysterically|
|Announce a great success||Be genuinely happy for you, but inside feel sad and terribly insecure about my own future|
|Create something beautiful||Fall in love with your talent and never forget how amazing you are|
|Fall down||Laugh, then ask if you’re okay|
|Ask me what I’m making for dinner||Laugh, then hand you the folder with the take-out menus|
|Fire me from a job I hated anyway||Watch the traffic report every morning from my couch, in my pajamas, then laugh and laugh and laugh because I know you’re in it, and thank the universe that I don’t have to work for such a shitbag anymore|
|Ask me what I’ll have to drink||Feel pressured to decide then just say Mexican Martini even though I don’t really want that|
|Serve me three Mexican Martinis||Tell slurry stories with WAY too much information, yell inappropriate things at other people in the bar, show my underwear and probably fall down|
|Slow dance with me||Sway awkwardly. Step on your feet. Apologize profusely. Repeat.|
|Leave the TV on with The American President, Blind Side, Ocean’s 11 or anything with Cary Grant playing||Stay and watch it all the way through the credits, even though I’ve already seen it a million times|
|Leave the TV on with any of the Twilight movies playing||Watch the whole damned thing and hate myself EVERY SINGLE SECOND OF IT|
|Rush me||Leave the house without anything I actually need|
|Tell me you need me||Be there|
|Say anything during a home improvement project about caulk or the size of your hose||THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID|
|Ask me if something is wet||THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID|
|Talk about putting something in your mouth||THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID|
|Discuss getting a piece of something||THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID|
Today is National Pi Day. Pi is a really really long number that has something to with circles. It’s important for a lot of big reasons that a lot of very smart people understand. On Pi Day they get super excited and talk about it a lot.
And that’s everything I know about Pi.
In celebration of this day that is very important for many reasons that I don’t understand and never will and don’t want to, I will now share with you an excerpt from my award-winning*, best-selling**, top-reviewed*** book Something Smells Like Pee (and Other Classy Observations) , which is currently on sale in both paperback and e-book formats on Amazon.com.
I hope you enjoy it.
* Proud winner of the Best Book Written By Anyone in My House Award, given by me
** Currently ranked #1 in sales on the list of Books Written About Things that Smell Like Pee (children’s books, animal care books, parenting advice books and household maintenance books not included), calculations performed by me
*** By me
[Originally posted February, 2010. Re-sharing now because I'm feeling nostalgic.]
So my best friend from high school (also known as “Queen Bee“) just sent me a copy of a note that I apparently wrote her from my tenth grade algebra class. It is both hilarious and horrifying at the same time.
I’ve blacked out some names to protect the innocent but you get the idea.
A few notes:
- I learned NOTHING in 10th grade Algebra II.
- I crushed on the Cute Boy on and off from the 7th through 10th grades, but he never wanted to be anything more than friends. I look back on photos from that time and I’m baffled.
- The Arch Nemesis was alternately a Best Friend (also on and off) all the way from elementary school, through junior high, high school and beyond. Our love/hate relationship eventually turned to just hate. I have no idea what she’s up to now and refuse to friend her on Facebook to find out.
- I have no idea who the boy is I didn’t want to like me, have no idea what “Gertrud’s” was, and don’t remember anything about that Thanksgiving.
- My Algebra II teacher was a very short, very quiet Hispanic man who always wore his belt buckle to the side, not in the middle. There was a rumor floating through school that this signified his dedication to Witchcraft and the Dark Arts. Having snuck into the theater that summer to see The Witches of Eastwick, and having tried several spells from The Modern Witch’s Spellbook (none successful, but probably because I substituted many ingredients and had no idea what “parchment” was), I considered myself an expert on this matter and believed the rumor completely.
- I still have my copy of The Modern Witch’s Spellbook and I know what parchment is now, so don’t fuck with me.
- The scariest part of this note is the fact that some idiot gave a 10th grader a Visa card. I don’t remember this particular credit card but I am absolutely certain of three things:
(a) My mother had no idea I had it
(b) I used it to purchase things like L.A. Looks styling gel, Jellies, posters of Sting and the Cure (likely found at Spencer’s in the mall), lip gloss and random cassette tapes for my Walkman until Visa cut me off and I never paid the balance
(c) My mother will leave a comment here about this being the beginning of my long career of fiscal irresponsibility, or something to that effect
- The “Love You Always” special L-turns-into-A effect was painstakingly conceived and devised because I believed I needed my own “signature” to stand out from all the other note-writers. For about a semester, every note I wrote was signed this way.
- When I showed this to the BFF, her response was this: “It’s odd how you have changed very little. When I saw the seating chart, I thought it was a building you wanted to throw that chick off of.” I’m really not sure what this says about me.
- Oh yeah. It says that I’M AWESOME. And have been since at least the tenth grade.
P.S. If you use Internet Explorer, my blog has decided that you’re an asshole. Not ME, my blog. So you can’t leave a comment. Should be fixed this weekend but until then you can either (1) use an Internet browser that DOESN”T suck gross, hairy balls or (B) close your eyes and wish really really really hard to leave a comment. (Helps if you rub something.) Thanks for playing.
P.P.S. Okay, my web guy fixed the Internet Explorer issue and it turns out that I did something to fuck up that post so it wasn’t my BLOG that decided you were an asshole, it was ME. On accident. Sorry. You’re not an asshole. You’re awesome. You can like my blog again, and leave a comment, and you don’t even have to rub anything.
P.P.P.S. Unless you want to. Rub something, I mean.
P.P.P.P.S. I would do both, if I were you.
P.P.P.P.P.S. What I’m trying to say is, according to me and my blog, you are no longer an asshole.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Okay, you MIGHT be an asshole. I don’t know. I don’t know you. You could be the biggest asshole on the planet, for all I know.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I’m pretty sure my web guy thinks I’M an asshole.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Having all of these P.S.es probably makes me even MORE of an asshole.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. It should be noted that if you’re my mom, you’re definitely NOT an asshole.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Hey, Mom, can I borrow some money?
There’s this little book I wrote called Something Smells Like Pee
It’s filled with witty poems and a sketch or two or three
Now it’s published and for sale and what I’d like to see
Are great reviews and many, many checks of royalty
I’m out here hawking it to all my friends and family
But so far all my sales reports show they’re ignoring me
I’ve decided screw ‘em all, I’m going public now
I like strangers more than those old fuckers, anyhow
So if you’re feeling daring and you think you’d like to try it,
Use this link to get to it — just takes one click to buy it
Once you read it, I would love to hear just what you think
(Unless you hated it, in which case your opinion stinks.)
That’s my pitch, I know it leaves a bit to be desired
But after all this work, I’ll tell ya, I am fucking TIRED.
Rest assured, I’ll be tracking all the sales and crap
At least, I will when I arise from my twelve-year nap…
So I’ll now say thank you, and bid you all good night
Would one of you, on your way out, please switch off the light?
And happy reading, y’all.
So, I did this thing where I spent 27 years* writing a book and now that it’s done I fucking hate it. I mean, I don’t actually hate the book itself – That would be ridiculous! It’s an awesome book! – but I DO hate that I spent 36 years* working on it and now that it’s finally done I’m just finding out that, when it comes to a self-published book, there is actually no such thing as “done.”
See? Doesn’t that look done? I think so. And after working on it for the last 43 years,* I sure as hell FEEL like it’s done.
But it’s not, y’all. It’s not done at all.
The entire 51 years* I spent working on this thing, there was a finish line in my head. I truly believed – truly believed – that once it was published I could let it go. Here’s how it was supposed to go down:
I’d publish the book on Amazon, and some random guy in Topeka or Boise would see it and think Hey! That sounds funny! I think I’ll buy it! and he would. And he would read it and love it, and he would tell all his friends, and they would buy it. And then their friends would buy it. And so on and so forth and on and on until I was the biggest name in the history of independent publishing and I would live in an enormous mansion with secret passages and trap doors in every room. And I would sip champagne and laugh as I pulled the cord and sent the Big Bean down into a tank of hungry sharks or something equally life-threatening anytime he said something I didn’t like.
And I’d finally get that chin implant I’ve been wanting.
When it got hard or tiresome, when I was up until all hours writing or spending my lunch hour drawing sketches, when I was trying to get the fucking images to fit into the fucking template for the seven fucking thousandth time, I’d repeat to myself: Just get to the finish line. Just get to the finish line. Because once I passed that last hurdle, I knew I’d finally be able to relax and concentrate on more important things, like my kid’s mad soccer skills and my next creative project and, possibly, my mental health. (Not necessarily in that order.)
Just get to that finish line.
If you’re laughing right now, it’s because you’ve done this before. You know. The joke was on me.
There is no finish line.
I published my book on a Monday, and that Tuesday I sent a couple of emails to local writers’ groups announcing its release.
Me: Look! I wrote a book! Here it is! Isn’t it great!?
Them: That IS great! Where’s the Facebook page? What’s the Twitter account? When’s your launch party? What kind of merchandising are you doing? Can we see your press kit?
Them: Please tell us you at least have a web site.
Them: (shocked) Really??!? This is basic stuff, Beej. You didn’t just think you were DONE now, did you?
Me: (sheepish) Well…
Them: HAHAHA HAHAHA! Hey, everybody else! Guess what Beej did?? She wrote a book and she- HAHAAA – ohmygod sorry, it’s just so funny – she thought she was—heeheehee– DONE!!!! (wiping tears from cheeks) She doesn’t even h-h-have a — (barely spitting it out) WEB SITE!!!!! (snort) HAAAAA hee hee! Hee!
Everyone: AHHHAAAAHHAAHAHAHAAAA! DUMBASS! DUMBASS!
It turns out that the 65 years* I spent writing and drawing and navigating my book through the unnecessarily complicated template-proof-production process will all be time wasted – unless I conquer the next step. The next step is called SALES AND MARKETING, and it is horrible. It’s hard and bad and involves copious amounts of begging and schmoozing and spending lots of money and basically performing the online equivalent of a daily vaudeville performance to get attention.
Which isn’t humiliating at all.
I’m tired. I just spent 79 years* on this thing and I don’t feel like dancing. But if I choose to stick with my original plan of organic, grassroots, word-of-mouth marketing, my book will FAIL and I will be a big LOSER and have NO FRIENDS and everyone will call me BOOGER EATER and laugh and point when I walk down the street. Or at least, I think that’s how this ends.
So clearly I need to do this. Okay. I’m gonna do this. Here I go! Watch me do this!
Wait. How do I do this?
It seems like I should research this sales and promotions stuff but christ on a cracker, that shit is boring. Helpful lists and books abound – apparently, marketing a book takes anywhere from two to 1,001 steps, most of them either total kindergarten common sense or so ridiculous and smarmy that even I wouldn’t consider them. (And I think we all know that’s saying something.)
Also, um… BORING. Did I say that already? I did? Sorry, I’m a little glazed over from all the snoozing. One helpful friend sent me an article that Guy Kawasaki wrote or shared or magically pulled out of his handsome, happy, Enchanted ass – but after about two paragraphs I was all “SO MANY WORDS MAKE THEM STOP”** and gave up to play solitaire instead.
“I made a million billion dollars while you read those two paragraphs…
so it’s all the same to me.”
I did do a Kickstarter project to try and raise funds, but my video was a disaster in which I played with my hair, discovered a double chin and referred to my vagina.
I’m sure it will shock no one that I failed to reach my goal.
Clearly this is not where my talent lies. In fact, NONE of this is where my talent lies. My talent lies in making up stupid shit that’s funny. That’s it. That’s my talent. This market-your-book stuff is all sales numbers and value ratios and press kits and networking opportunities and you people DO realize I became a creative writer specifically to avoid all this crap, right??
The good news is, plenty of consultants out there are more than happy to do it all for me. For the low, low price of one zillion dollars and 99 cents, they will work very hard! Doing pretty much nothing! And they can guarantee me at least zero sales! What am I waiting for?!
So. Looks like it’s time to dust off my dancing shoes. Get ready for some jazz hands, y’all – ‘cause Mama’s about to cut a fucking rug.
I can totally do this.
*not actual time spent; just the amount I feel I spent in my heart.
** probably exactly how you’re feeling at this point, too.
Originally published February 3, 2011. Republishing today because… I don’t know. It’s fucking cold, okay, and we all need to lighten up. Nothing funnier than witch’s tits and roasted Shih Tzus, I always say. Stay warm, y’all.
Yesterday when I woke up it was 17 degrees outside, and the reason I know this is because I opened Facebook and there were about 20 different pictures of temperature gauges and iPhone weather report thingies informing me that it was 17 degrees outside. Mostly with comments expressing disbelief over the “extreme cold” even though the weather dudes had been predicting the DEATH STORM OF ’11 for like three weeks.
Anyway, I thought it was funny because 17 degrees probably seems like the goddamn tropics to some poor schmo holed up in his house in the rural northeast, where it’s negative one million degrees right now. THAT guy’s buried up to his balls in snow and wearing like four pairs of long underwear and his ex-wife’s leopard-print Snuggie just to stay alive, and he’d probably give his frozen left nut for 17 degrees. He probably only logged on to Facebook to look for news on when his roads will be clear, because he’s been trapped in his house for four days now and he ran out of toilet paper last night and this morning he ate his last NightHawk dinner and his stomach’s growling a little and he’s started avoiding eye contact with his ex-wife’s Shih Tzu because he might have to eat it later.
So this poor, cold, hungry, pathetic dude logs on to Facebook to find out if he’s ever going to be able to leave his house again, or if he’ll have to eat this weird, hairy dog – but instead of finding important information about whether emergency vehicles are running or how he can dig his way out of six feet of ice, he gets a bunch of pictures of Austin thermostats at 17 degrees with comments like “OMG IT’S COLDER THAN A WITCH’S TIT!” and “WOW! They said it might SNOW!!” and pictures of a windshields that are a little frosty and right now, he probably thinks we’re the biggest assholes EVER.
And that makes me sad for him but it also makes me laugh because really, we ARE assholes. And it makes me wonder what Shih Tzus taste like after you skin them. Probably too chewy.
Anyway, I said something on Facebook about how everyone in Austin seems desperate to record how not-really-that-cold it is, with the follow-up “haaahahahahaa I’m so adorable, just joshing you guys” not actually typed out but clearly implied. And then I sat back and waited for all the comments to pour in, telling me how awesome and clever I am. But about ten minutes later I only had ONE comment and it was from this lady who totally didn’t think I was cute at all. “Excuse ME, but we’re NOT desperate and there are LOTS of people who care to know that it’s 17 degrees here, like my friend who lives in FRANCE, and you’re just fucking JEALOUS because YOU don’t know anyone who lives in FRANCE. You’re stupid!! I hope you DIE!!”
Okay, she said it a *little* nicer than that, but not much.
And maybe she was right, maybe I AM a stupid bitch (okay, yeah, I definitely am), but I still think it was lame for her to call me out on Facebook like that, especially when I’ve said SO MANY MORE obnoxious things. She’s pissed about this, but stayed silent when I compared last year’s sticky summer heat to the hot, sweaty balls of Jesus? Really? HELLO?
And THEN my smartass sister chimed in with something like “OOOOOOOOHH BUUUUUURRRRRRNNNN” and I couldn’t even tell her to suck it or really defend myself at all because this lady is the mom of a friend of mine and also much bigger than me and I’m certain she could (and would) take me in a fight.
So basically I just did the Facebook equivalent of cowering in a corner and now my tail* is firmly wedged between my milky white thighs** and that poor guy in the DEATH STORM of ’11 has probably eaten his ex-wife’s dog by now and I’m not really sure what else to say about all of this except Somebody put another log on the fire! My tits are freezing off!!
What I’m trying to say is: Stay warm, friends — wherever you are. May Jesus’ hot balls make an appearance under your covers tonight.
*Just an expression. I don’t actually have a tail. As far as you know.
**Also just an expression. My thighs are super white but not milky at all.
The Apocalypse is here and it
is not what you expected
No nuke weapons, gamma rays
or UFOs detected
There’s been no viral outbreak and
no zombies hunt for brains
No daring last-minute escapes
from torrential rains
No comets hurtling toward Earth,
no global overcrowd,
and so far Jesus has not
floated in atop a cloud.
No, the end is none of these…
The thing that will bring our fall
is called Clamshell Packaging
and on Christmas it will kill us all, y’all.
This Christmas it will kill us all.
Be safe out there, and happy holidays…
First published December 10, 2009. I’m trotting it out again because it still holds true, and also because LOOK AT MY BABY WHO’S NOT A BABY ANYMORE. (SOB)
Listen, I love the holidays as much as the next guy, I really do. And I love them even MORE this year, because this year my little Bean’s discovering Christmas for the first time, with the trees and the tinsel and the gifts and the stockings, and we’re suddenly VERY concerned about our status on The List, and we’re keeping watch out the front window in case Santa should arrive, and we want to watch the Grinch and Snoopy and wrap presents and sing Jingle Bells and MY GOD THE CUTE, PEOPLE. I swear this kid could take down an entire city block with all that cute.
Every year there’s got to be some big douche out there ruining Christmas for everyone else. And this year the “Big Douche Ruining Christmas” Award goes to MAJIC 95.5, the so-called “easy listening” station that can’t even spell its own name, which plays non-stop Christmas music the entire month of December. Which would be fine, if there were more than three Christmas albums in the world that didn’t suck, but there aren’t — it’s Bing Crosby, George Winston, and Vince Guaraldi, and everything else sucks balls, and that is that. (And if you’re going to comment now that some other Christmas album’s just as good, don’t even bother because I’m not listening to your bullshit. Bing. Vince. George. The. End.)
I swear to god if Kenny Rogers asks Mary if she “knew” ONE MORE TIME I’m going to beat someone to death with baby Jesus from the nativity scene down the street. Why don’t you leave Mary the fuck ALONE, Kenny? Hasn’t she done enough? Now she has to answer YOUR stupid ass questions too? I’LL tell you what Mary knew, she knew that she was nine months pregnant and riding a fucking DONKEY in the middle of nowhere, and some dicksneeze innkeeper made her sleep in the BARN, where she was trapped with a bunch of farm animals and some random dudes in robes just standing around with their smelly spices and shit, ogling her junk while she gave birth with NO EPIDURAL. What Mary KNEW was that she wanted that kid out of her pronto and probably for everyone else to just shut the fuck up about it. THAT’S what she knew, Kenny. Okay? Kapeesh?
I’m actually not sure how historically accurate that is (OR how to spell “kapeesh”), but you get my point. Kenny Rogers is the devil. That’s my point.
Oh also hey, MAJIC 95 – 1986 called and it wants its lame bullshit song about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer back. That shit wasn’t funny the first time we heard it and it’s DEFINITELY not funny now, 20-plus years and 5 million plays later. I’d rather eat an entire jar of Baconnaise in one sitting than hear that fucking song again, yet there you go, playing it over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, like you don’t even KNOW how much it sucks.
But you DO know, MAJIC 95, don’t you? Yeah. You know. And I know you know. And you know that I know that you know.
While I’m on the subject of over and over and over and over and over again, can I just say this?
Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime
Siiiimply haaaaaaving awonderfulChristmastime
Know why I said that? Because I CAN’T GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD. It’s like a hot branding iron burned those words into my brain, forever marking me as the song’s slave and victim. And Paul McCartney is also the devil. That’s my other point.
You’re singing it now, too, aren’t you? You thought I was overreacting before, didn’t you? But now you understand, don’t you? There really IS such a thing as too much Christmas. Even my KID gets it (“Mommy, I donWANT that song! Tun OFF! Tun OFF!”), and he’s two and a half. It doesn’t take a mental giant to understand that MAJIC 95 is trying to kill us all, one shitty holiday song at a time.
But wait! You thought I was done, but I’m not, because there’s this:
What the FUCK, Dan Fogelberg? What kind of crack were you on when you wrote that? Can you say “Most Depressing Christmas Song EVER”?
This may be the most annoying blog post I’ve ever written. I don’t know, I’ve written some pretty annoying shit, but this has got to at least make the top five. I’m going to stop now before I get started on Bruce Springsteen and John Denver and the dogs THOSE GODDAMNED DOGS – because I think that just *might* send me over the edge, I mean, really, OVER. THE. EDGE — and I don’t think anyone wants that.
Except MAJIC 95. Apparently.