A Cynic’s Xmas Greeting Card

Tis the season. Tis the season for putting on pounds by usurping high-fructose corn syrup from pastries, candies, cakes, and mystery boxes of chocolates, when no one is around. To masticate on rum soaked sugar cookies ‘til you vomit in your personalized Christmas stocking. The season for warm greetings and salutations with the after-taste of guilt and contrition—not quite knowing whom you just offended and who just offended you.

Tis the season for the poor to feel poorer, and the rich to feel nothing but pity for others and sorry for themselves. Money can’t buy happiness, the poor might think. And the poor surly can’t be happy, the rich might think. And those in the middle whose numbers dwindle are just too busy trying to keep up with the Joneses they can barely think at all.

Tis the season for feigned smiles, belonging to those who can’t wait for the season to both come and then go. They praise its jubilant forthcoming. Then once in the thick of it, rebuke its presence and question its commercial motives. They simultaneously love and hate the Christmas tunes, the gift-wrapping, and holiday programing that tugs at the nostalgia of halcyon days of simpler times long passed. Days where snow angels were creations of playfulness and imagination. Days where all that concerned you was what you were getting. But now, playfulness was lewd behavior, and an imagination was worked out of you by your nine-to-five job. Concerns gravitated towards giving; not getting—giving away your time, your money, and your integrity.

Tis the season to drink your liver under the table. To eat your heart out to its limits. To spend your earnings to near collapse. To humble yourself before commerce. To put your patience to task. Tis the season to donate your pity to the collapsing societies and nations around the globe, which include your own.

Tis the season to shake off the vague malaise of suffering in the world, like shaking off the cold drift that swoops down your neck and along your spine. Tis the season to distract yourself from the cries of the many who suffer from the handful of greedy, power-hungry, demagoguery, narcissistic sociopaths twats who want more than they’ll ever need, for no other reason than to feel important, powerful, immortal, and special, only to become bored by it all. Those images that taunt and tug at your sleeve from the tv screens, and computer and mobile devices while you have your peppermint flavored latté during the office seasonal ironic-wearing-ugly-xmas-sweater contest. The best/worst gets that miniature bottle of alcohol and stake knives. Tis the season for delusions, fantasies and lies. To slip on the fuzzy mittens and puffy earmuffs of denial. Snap on those rose-tinted ski-goggles that makes all the world a wonderland made from candy canes and sugarplums as you plummet free-fall downhill on the slops over the freshly powdered, white, artificial snow that coats the cruelness and idiot-crasy of mankind with an ever thinning veil. Stand in one place long enough and you might just see the ghostly faces of the past, present and future of those who’ve been denied the basic rights of life: food, water, shelter, love, peace, and life itself.

Tis the season to turn that frown upside-down. The exhausting moribund year is near its conclusion, and a new one is on the brim of hope. Self-made promises, restrictions, resolutions, and changes of betterment all put up on the wall only to be knocked down one by one like dominos as the world spins around the sun once more, giving light to the fact changes don’t actually happen fast enough to make any real difference in your lifetime, and the cycle of the following seasons play the same old tune on repeat: that song called “weltschmerz”.

Tis the season for blinking colored lights, ribbons, greeting cards, presents, roasting fires, snow-tires, libations, turducken, chocolate covered nuts, family movies, fruit assaulted cakes, reindeer themed PJs, snowman themed slippers, mall Santa knees, employment boost for little people, reminders that little people do walk amongst us, hard-candy, indoor trees, alarming bowel movements or concerning lack there of, drunk driving, heart attacks, awkward mawkish family moments, awkward apathetic family moments, carols, tv fire channels, the Saint Nick myth, and the high suicide rate myth.

Tis the season. Tis the season. Tis the season for a semblance of hope, kindness, and cheer in the face of the cold, cruel, and indifferent world. Tis the season and for some reason I can’t imagine a world without this unabashed commercial holiday baked in traditions based on falsehoods. The fabrication of happiness in a month where the desperate desire to crawl back into their childhood days where they were once cozy and warm, mollycoddled, and best of all blessed with ignorance. Where meaning didn’t need to be found or forged with illusions and denials by our own will, but instead, it was simply given to us. Given with glee, given and received without question. Because that’s what this season is about. Faith. Faith in mankind, despite the evidence, despite the reality, despite the facts. It is the season to steel-man our apologists for humanity. To feed the need to prevail, to rise against our greatest enemy—ourselves.

I try to ask as little as I can, but what I do ask of myself and of you is—be good to each other and to yourself. Have a safe and happy holidays to all.

—Keven