Ahhhhh, Kwanza…. One of my favorite parts about the holidays is going to the mall to buy gifts for my family as an outward expression of my love and affection…  Boy, I can’t even write that with a straight typeface!

Shopping at the mall, any mall, is abysmal. It’s crowded and smelly and desperate.   It’s like a third world prison except you don’t get free food and buttsex.

Plus, you’re inundated with horrendous contemporary Christmas music remixes.  To make matters worse, ubiquitous speakers even pipe it into the bathroom.  There is no respite.  Really, I gotta squeeze out a cheese-laden Chipotle log to a hip-hop rendition of “Da Lil Drumma Bizoy?”

This thronging clusterfizuck is, of course, exacerbated by the ‘High Noon’ ticking clock mantra of what do I get?/who do I buy for?/why do I care? that begins shortly after you put away your regrettable Halloween costume.  And this exacerbation is further exacerbated by the immutable fact that you know — based on the latest scientific findings — there is no such thing as altruism, so ‘The Spirit of Christmas’ slogan just feels ironic.

But I was there.  At the mall Christmas Eve.  In a panic.  Trying to find last minute toys to cram into the insatiable maw of my four spoiled nieces and nephews. What do you get the child that wants everything? I always wanted a remote control car but never got one, so I guess I’m done with the bratty 5 year old. I finally got back to my brother’s house with way too much shit for kids that barely remember they have an ‘Uncle Bill.’

Spending Christmas Eve with my nieces and nephews really did allow me to experience the true ‘Spirit of Christmas.’   And that is, of course, blackmail.

Let’s face it: Santa Claus was invented as a form of coercion to control children and their evil behavior.  Really?   All I gotta do is tell these little snot-nosed bastards that some fatty in red pj’s is gonna put coal in their stocking and they will, no questions asked, shut the fuck up for more than 10 consecutive minutes? Talk about a Christmas miracle!

Also, spending time over the holidays with my nieces and nephews, for me, always serves as a friendly reminder to pull out. There’s no better birth control than two histrionic 4 year olds screaming — a la Greek tragedy — over the fact that their toys were ‘touched.’

At one point on Christmas day, I had to babysit all four of these maniacs for about 45 minutes.  After 45 seconds, I was like:

“Hey kids, why don’t you go outside and play? And wait for a van. Wear something skimpy please!”

That night, I thought my misanthropy might be lifted by a holiday movie, so I went, alone, to a midnight screening of ‘Avatar.’

At a Magic Johnson Theater.

Now, I usually don’t go to urban movie theaters, mostly because I enjoy HEARING the movies, but I needed to get out of the house and away from faux-holiday cheer.

And yes, in retrospect, it was my fault if I had a bad experience.  Let’s be honest, with some theaters, the “Please remember to refrain from talking during the movie” warning does not really apply.   The people who talk at the movies in these venues KNOW they talk at the movie!  A cute little jingle isn’t going to get them to rethink their blabby ways.   As a matter of fact, at Magic’s theaters, I think they should change the announcement from “Please remember to refrain from talking during the movie” to “Please remember to TAKE TURNS talking during the movie — share screen time with your peeps, yo!”

Right away, I almost had a conniption because they did the “Don’t ruin the movie by adding your own soundtrack” announcement, which has the sound of a crying baby in it.  Everyone, clearly shell-shocked from the holidays like me, looked around confused and furious for a second like, “Will someone shut that fucking baby up?!”

By the way, who is that message for?  Is it for the babies?  Are they supposed to think, “Oh sorry! I’ll keep that in check, thanks for reminding me, yo!”  And how are these babies able to sneak out without its babysitters noticing and get INTO a midnight movie?  Is it like a “Look Who’s Talking” John Travolta superpower Scientology baby?

Is it for the mothers who brought their baby to the theatre?

That’s ironic because you’re sending a logical message to a woman… who brought her fucking BABY to the movie theatre!!!  Not to mention the fact that if she is in the movie, she can’t CONTROL the wails of her baby!  Are they suggesting that she series-finale-Alan-Alda-”MASH”it and snap the baby’s neck!?

Finally the movie began and I started to relax for the first time in weeks…

About 5 minutes into Sigourney Weaver’s wooden acting, I did, in fact, hear an actual baby begin to wail.  Now, you would think that any sensible mother would excuse herself and walk quietly outside of the theatre and give it some frothy tit until it calmed down again.  But not this woman, she just bounced the baby up and down, which gave the crying jag a nice vibrato for the ensuing 2 and 1/2 hours.

Pandora was ruined.   It was hard enough to suspend my disbelief that there’s a world run by Smurfs on steroids, much more so when competing against mewling-infant-surround sound.

In all seriousness, who the hell brings their one-year old to a midnight screening?   OF A VIOLENT, ADULT FILM!? WITH NAKED SMURFS?!   Someone has got to stop this crazy white woman!

Be honest ….. were you guys picturing a minority?  Well, if so, you just might be a racist.  In fact, this woman and myself were probably the only white people in the theatre.

“What about the baby?  Wouldn’t that be THREE white people?” you might be thinking.  Well, first of all, I don’t count a “baby” as “person.”  A baby is just a virus in diapers.   Second of all, the baby was CLEARLY not all white.   It seems that Mexicans are good at their ability to filtrate and clean pools and, coincidentally, infiltrate gene pools.

I walked out of the theatre, got back into my car, and drove back to my brother’s house.  The petulant spare key finally opened the front door into the living room where the Christmas tree casually twinkled at my late arrival.  The floor was littered with wrapping paper and new toys already or soon to be forgotten.   The place looked like two retarded elves got drunk and had a knife fight.

Suddenly, in the dark, I noticed that on my brother’s biege couch was a sloppy crayon drawing of a grinning stick boy holding a remote control car.  Next to it in looping purple were the words ‘THANKS UNCLE BILL.’

Bah.  Humbug.

I sat on the couch and smiled, reluctantly, in the post-Christmas quiet… a silence syncopated by the blink of stringed white lights.

Tags: Avatar Christmas Bill Dawes Laugh Factory

This entry was posted on Monday, December 28th, 2009 at 7:46 am and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.