There are rules in my house for the holidays. (Actually, they’re not so much in my house as in my head.  I do take them with me wherever I go.) Here’s what you have to do if you want to celebrate the holidays with me:

• We do not talk of weight or diets during Christmas week. There are no “I shouldn’ts” or discussion of Weight Watchers points during this week. You have your whole life to diet. This type of food only happens once a year.
• We do not yell at the cats for destroying the tree. It’s their house, too, and they’re not allowed to go outside. You’ve just brought a giant, six-foot cat toy into the house. If they want to chew on the pine needles and barf up green hairballs later, by golly, you will LET them!
• We do not play holiday music in my presence unless it is Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. The exceptions to this are limited, and come down to:

1.  “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” by Band Aid.
   
2.   “Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy” by David Bowie and Bing Crosby. (Note: ONLY this version is allowed. And no more than twice a season.)
   
3.  “Wonderful Christmas Time” by Paul McCartney (no more than once a season).
   
4.  “You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” by Thurl Ravenscroft (most fun name EVER!)—however, if you compare me to the green, cranky one, I will stab you in the eye with a fork three sizes too small. Like a cocktail fork. Whatever. It'll hurt, that's all.

Note: I have been known to break up with radio stations forever for starting their holiday music crap right after Thanksgiving (it was nice knowing you, 106.5 WBMW).

• If you want me to bring food to a holiday gathering, you have two choices:

1. spinach dip in a bread bowl
   
2. cookies (probably snickerdoodles)

There is no wavering from this list. If you call me a week before your scheduled event and ask me to bring a fancy pesto-puffed-pastry tree with dipping sauce that you’re just sure I’m talented and creative enough to make, you will get a bread bowl filled with spinach dip.
Or nothing. You might get nothing. A pesto tree? Are you kidding?

• Step out to the left, please. When the car stops, please step out to the left. (Wait. I think that's the rule for the old Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disney World. Disregard, please.)
• You are welcome to wish me a Merry Christmas, a Happy Holiday, a Fabulous Festivus, a Happy Chewbacca, or whatever you wish to say to acknowledge the season. This is the one time of year when I will not be offended by your religious views. Knock yourself out.
• Do not ask me to watch holiday specials with you. I do not like them. You cannot change my reaction to them. I will not enjoy them. I will heckle them. You will get angry and call me a Grinch. I will impale your eyeballs with my above-mentioned cocktail fork. It will end badly.

Follow these rules, and we'll get along fine. I hope you have a wonderful holiday this Christmas. Happy Chewbacca, everyone!
__________
This week from The Storyside:
My Favorite Funny People: "Light Reading" by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)
Festive Book Review: "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Krampus" by Rob Smales

It’s that time of year again, when I flog and skewer stupid, sappy Christmas specials. Today’s victim? The insipid and generally terrible Miracle on 34th Street.

The movie opens with Kris Kringle (Edmund Gwenn) getting upset that the Macy’s Santa is slightly intoxicated, proving that Kris Kringle is an intolerable prig. Alcoholism is a disease, Santa. Perhaps the only thing this guy had to look forward to in his miserable life was the brief, shining moment during his day when he could play Santa Claus. And now you just got him fired. Right before Christmas. Ho, ho, ho. Jerk.

Now that Macy’s has no Santa, Kris steps in to fill the role (how convenient). Listen, if this guy is the real Santa, doesn’t he have better things to do? Like prepare for the one day of the year when he has to deliver toys to every single good kid in the world? I’d think he wouldn’t really have time to fill in at Macy’s, but what do I know? Kris promptly messes up on his first day by sending parents shopping at every store in town except Macy’s. I was brought up to respect the company that puts food on my table every year, but clearly Kris was raised by woodland elves and has no concept of loyalty. (I’d bet if Santa’s stupid elves quit to take a better job at, say, the Lego factory, he wouldn’t feel quite so magnanimous about recommending other companies.)

Macy’s event director, Doris Walker (Maureen O’Hara), has told her daughter, Susan (Natalie Wood), that Santa Claus isn’t real. Susan takes this as permission to yank on Kris Kringle’s beard, which should have put her on the naughty list right there. She tells Kris she doesn’t believe in Santa, adding fuel to the naughty fire. Then she asks him for a house for Christmas. A house! Heck, when I was a kid, I didn’t even ask Santa for a Cabbage Patch Kid because I thought it was too expensive of a gift to request. (Santa brought me one anyway, because he's magical. but not rich, kid.)  This spoiled, disrespectful beard-puller has a lot of nerve!

As it turns out, when you go around telling people you’re the real Santa Claus, someone is bound to think you’re reality-impaired. The Macy’s shrink (and since when does Macy’s employ psychiatrists?) has Kris committed.  Doris’s boyfriend Fred (John Payne) convinces Kris to take his case to court, because America is the land of frivolous court cases, after all. Fred gets the US Postal Service to dump 40,000 tons of junk mail in the courtroom, and because now all of the court officials have to spend their holidays cleaning up the mess, they forget about convicting Kris.

On Christmas morning, we have a moment of glee when Susan wakes up to find she didn’t get a new house for Christmas, but our joy at her misery is short-lived. Doris, Fred, and Susan take a drive in the country, and break into an empty home that Susan assumes is hers. (Even if it is, that’s a lot of responsibility to lay on a kid. Between maintaining the property, paying the taxes, pest control, and all the other fun things that come with home ownership, there’s no way this snotty little brat can keep up with the house on her own. Good thing her mom has roped Fred into proposing.) Honestly, Santa: it’s okay to tell a child “NO” when their Christmas gift requests are completely unreasonable. A HOUSE! In the spirit of Christmas, let me just say: what in Christ’s name are you thinking, giving a CHILD a HOUSE?

Overly sentimental, unrealistic, and too indulgent of children: I give Miracle on 34th Street two candy canes down.

I'll be signing books at the Book Club Bookstore, 100 Main Street, Broadbrook, CT on Sunday, December 13, from 10 AM–1 PM! Stop on by!

From The Storyside this week:
A new ebook single release from Rob Smales: "Carol of the Bells"
Fabulous free fiction: "The Sleep Thingy" by David Daniel

You may think I’m a grinch, and you know, you’re absolutely right about that. I make no bones about the fact that I can’t stand holiday music, movies, stories, or Bing Crosby. But surely I wouldn’t be so grinchy as to make fun of the most revered holiday classic, right? Not It’s a Wonderful Life, starring Jimmy Stewart, a man so impeccable in his conduct and reputation that he is still being considered for sainthood by the Catholic Church? I wouldn’t dream of going there, would I? Well, buckle up, Jimmy, because your saccharine lump of stupid is going down.

It’s a Wonderful Life opens with a suicidal George Bailey getting ready to jump off a bridge. This movie would’ve been a whole lot shorter and potentially more enjoyable if the director had just let him do his thing, but no, a meddling angel named Clarence has to interfere. First we are shown flashbacks of George’s life. We see George as a pharmacist’s assistant, saving a kid’s life when the pharmacist fills the kid’s prescription with the wrong pills. Great, right? But does George tell anyone else that the pharmacist is losing it and might be doling out death to everyone  in town coming in for a harmless antibiotic? Heck, no. George goes on his merry way, never tipping off the cops as to the true identity of the mysterious Bedford Falls Poisoner.

After George’s father dies (because nothing says “feel good” like the death of a parent, you sicko freaks) George is forced to give up his dreams in order to run the family business. He doesn’t want to, but George is a bit of a doormat, so he just does it, settling into a life of misery and unfulfilled dreams. Personally, I can’t believe he waited as long as he did to try and kill himself. His brother Harry is supposed to take over the business after using George’s college money for his own purposes, but we can all see where that’s headed, can’t we? That’s right—Harry leaves George high and dry, taking a job instead with his father-in-law. Thanks, bro. You’re a peach.

George then marries Mary, a woman he has bickered and sniped with since they first met, always a great way to choose a mate. They have to use their honeymoon money to bail out the Bailey Building & Loan after a bank run nearly ruins them. World War II starts, because that’s cheery, and George and Mary continue to struggle, which is evidenced in the fact that they name their fourth kid Zuzu. Clearly they have both lost their minds.

$8,000 is stolen from the Building and Loan’s cash funds, George is about to be arrested, and he can’t get a loan to save his business. George decides to get drunk and off himself. Can you feel the uplifting holiday joy radiating off of this stinker yet?

Clarence swoops in and shows George what life would be like if he’d never been born. There’s a cemetery instead of Bailey Park (and I personally don’t understand why that’s worse: I’ve always enjoyed a nice cemetery) and the poisoning pharmacist is thrown in jail (again, why is this a problem?). His brother is dead, his uncle is crazy, and his mom is a bitter widow—all things that would’ve happened eventually anyway, methinks. Bedford Falls is now Pottersville, a thriving city filled with booming nightclubs and pawn shops. Looks good to me, but apparently this shocks George into wanting to live. He returns home, where a bunch of people have donated money to save his neck. A nice gesture, but who is going to save George’s behind the next time this happens? Then George’s kid with the dumb name lisps something about angels getting their wings, but since I have no patience for children or speech impediments, I had to turn it off.

This movie is depressing. The main message here, which I took to be “Hey George, it could be worse,” is the worst possible thing you can say to a depressed person. Trust me on this. When I hear “It could be worse,” I think “I don’t give a crap. This sucks for me right now.” You know what gets me down even faster than “It could be worse?” Having to sit through a nauseating and pointless holiday movie like this slop. No, I much prefer the Married with Children version, in which Al Bundy begs angel Sam Kinison to give him his life back, just so he can make his family miserable again. At least Al had a goal. Something to live for.

Now that’s a wonderful life.

I may have mentioned in the past that I do not enjoy Christmas specials. I find them insipid, and they perpetuate horrible lies that only set children up for a lifetime of disappointment. While I despise Frosty, and find Rudolph sorely lacking in decent nasal hygiene, today I’m skewering the big guy himself. That’s right: you’re going down, Santa Claus is Coming to Town!

A nauseating effort from Rankin & Bass, or as I like to call them, Ache In My As—never mind, you get the picture--Santa Claus is Coming to Town stars Fred Astaire as the narrator. Thanks, Fred, for teaching kids that even the most reputable of actors will prostitute themselves for a buck.

This holiday special starts with a little kid named Claus being discarded on the doorstep of Burgermeister Meisterburger. Meisterburger is portrayed as the villain here, simply because he doesn’t want to raise a baby, has probably spent his whole life actively avoiding having children, and yet some idiot too stupid to use birth control abandons her baby on this guy’s porch and he’s the “bad guy” for sending the kid away to an orphanage. Whatever, Ache In My As—just whatever. The baby never makes it to the orphanage, because he’s kidnapped by a bunch of scary woodland creatures and dumped in a village full of trolls (sure, call them Kringles if you want to cutesy them up, but you’re not fooling anyone). The trolls call the kid Kris and start teaching him how to make toys. Toys, you realize, are illegal in the nearest village, Sombertown. This is the equivalent of setting a child up with his or her own home meth lab. Don’t you stupid trolls understand what illegal means?

Since Kris has now been raised to blatantly ignore and flaunt the law, he volunteers to deliver toys to the kids in Sombertown. No, you didn’t read that wrong—he’s volunteering to hand out illegal contraband to young children. This does not make Meisterburger happy, since he was once viciously attacked by a toy duck, resulting in a sprained ankle that surely required physical therapy and probably still aches every time it snows. Meisterburger demands that Kris Kringle be arrested, but the outlaw gets away, birdnapping a penguin named Topper in the process. Kris also manages to seduce a teacher named Jessica before leaving town. Lessons learned: penguins make adorable pets, breaking the law is okay if you don’t agree with said law, and those schoolteachers sure do go for bad boys.

I really hate this Christmas special.

Kris meets the Winter Warlock, bribes him to be his friend by giving him a cheap toy train, and returns to Sombertown. (I should mention here that he returns to town to bring the kids more toys after Meisterburger was forced to burn all of the old ones for heat to keep warm. ABC no longer shows the toy-burning scene, because it's "too scary," which is the politically correct way to say they are a bunch of corporate wussies.) Kris, Topper, and the Winter Warlock are thrown in jail (and rightly so—you’re breaking the law!) and all seems lost. But wait! Old Man Winter there, a bit of a hippie, has some “magic corn” that can make reindeer “fly.” The reindeer get high and break Kris and company out of jail. Lessons learned: jailbreaks are fun, and when an aging hippie offers you drugs that will make you fly, by golly, take them.

Eventually Kris marries Jessica, they become Santa and Mrs. Claus, and the trolls become “elves.” The old stoned winter hippie makes it snow (har har, I’ll bet he does). Burgermeister Meisterburger, misunderstood his whole sad life, dies toyless and alone. Fred Astaire collects a sizeable paycheck, and they all live happily ever after.

Bah.

Another year has passed, and you're probably wondering how my 2013 was. Wonder no more: Here are my highlights from the past year!

January: January 23rd came and went without any injuries to my knees. Since it was January 23, 2011, that I fell while ice skating and tore my MCL and chipped my knee cap, I tend to dread this date now. Also, I turned 40 this month. My family and friends plied me with lots of chocolate cake, so it wasn't so bad.

February: This was the month that I failed miserably at my attempt to follow the Atkins Diet in what will forever be known as "The Great Chocolate Mousse Cake Intervention." After recovering from my sugar withdrawal, I decided it would be healthier and safer for all involved if I ditched the diet and just bought bigger pants.

March: A low point in my year. Yes, I ate chocolate cake on my sister's birthday, but I had a sinus infection for most of the month. This was the month when I discovered home remedies for illness don't work that well. Also, if you chug apple cider vinegar, it will make you vomit.

April: This was the month we filed our taxes. Also, we realized we could no longer afford chocolate cake. I thought March was bad? Hah!

May: My addiction to Downton Abbey began in May. My mother and sister forced me to start watching this series (by mentioning that it was good) and my life was changed forever. Side effects have included talking in a mangled British accent and dressing like the Dowager Countess. Withdrawal symptoms can be easily managed by re-watching seasons over and over again on Netflix.

June: This month, I wrote an introspective letter to my teenage self. Highlights: I still love Duran Duran, and I have turned into my mother.

July: I went to see Stephen King at the Bushnell. He failed to acknowledge my existence. Hack.

August: This month, I listed the top ten sexiest actors ever. People universally hailed my list as "shallow" and "ridiculous."

September: Jason and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary by watching Sharknado and eating chocolate cake. Mmm, cake.

October: My book, Secret Things, came out this month. Hooray! This enabled me to brag that I had a book out, and meant that 3/4 of my Christmas shopping list was done. Didn't get a copy of Secret Things for Christmas? When's your birthday?

November: On November 2nd, I fulfilled a lifelong dream (or at least a dream I've had since the first season of Survivor aired) and met Richard Hatch. Now, besides bragging about having a book out, I could brag about meeting Richard Hatch. Life is good.

December: With every good thing that happens (see: meeting Richard Hatch) life has to throw a few dirty snowballs at you to keep things even. I had to sit through no less than seven crappy holiday specials this month, including Santa Claus is Coming to Town (insipid), Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (wishy-washy), and 'Twas the Night Before Christmas (nauseating). Also, because of all the cookies, there was no chocolate cake. But at least I got to meet Richard Hatch. 

Here's hoping for a fabulous 2014! And more Richard Hatch!

Sometimes, people ask me why I'm so grouchy around this time of year. These people are taking their lives into their own hands. However, I do have a simple explanation: others have made me this way.

Jason, for instance, would argue that he does everything he can to put me in the Christmas spirit. I can tell you that his methods are faulty. It's taken him a long time to realize that not only do I not find it funny when he puts on holiday videos that he knows I despise (i.e. all of them, with the exception of the outstanding A Wish For Wings That Work) but it's also a good way to get me to empty the contents of his underwear drawer, soak the whole lot in cold water, and dump everything in the freezer.

Just yesterday, he popped in a video of A Christmas Story. Now how could I possibly not enjoy this little tale of a boy who wants a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas, you ask? This movie is full of terrible lessons and yes, I'll say it, racism. First of all, throughout the whole movie, all of the adults tell Ralphie he'll shoot his eye out with that dumb gun. So what does he do when he gets it? He practically shoots his eye out. Perhaps he should've taken the hint and saved up his allowance for safety goggles, and this wouldn't have happened. Then he lies to his mother about almost shooting his eye out. Clearly, this film encourages children to lie to their parents. That's a terrible lesson.
Also, I don't like that Ralphie beats up that redheaded kid for no other reason than he's a redhead. (I think. I wasn't really paying attention.) For centuries, gingers have been put to death simply because of the color of their hair. So this movie teaches kids to discriminate based on looks. Why would I want to watch this racist crap?

Perhaps you think I should try another activity, like decorating the tree. I'll admit this would have the potential to un-grinch my heart, but because I have two cats who are inclined to misbehave, this isn't as fun as it sounds. When I unpacked the blinking snowflake tree lights, I plugged them in and immediately electrocuted myself. It turns out Wednesday had been using them as kitty dental floss, and the wires had been stripped bare. Bad cat. Bad cat!
How the tree is decorated is also largely influenced by the cats. All of the nice ornaments have to go up top, and the cheap ones hang low, since the cats think the whole tree is their plaything. So the top foot of my tree is crammed full of adorable cow ornaments, and the bottom half is sparsely decorated with Jason's Coca-Cola ornaments. The cats manage to take down and destroy about three ornaments a day, and I'm certainly not going to let those little demons get their claws on my cute ice-skating cow with a scarf. (I should also mention that I had to decorate the tree myself. If you're not going to help, then you're not allowed to complain when your Coca-Cola Santa ornament becomes a casualty.) Plus we can't put silver icicles on the tree, because it could kill the cats if they eat it (and they will). I have at least two aunts that would never speak to me again if Wednesday died of silver icicle ingestion.
Finally, nobody in the house will cooperate with me at all when I do try to do something fun, like make a cute video of the cats in Christmas hats. (See epic failure below.)

So why am I a humbug? Because the people and animals in my house made me that way.

I may have mentioned in the past that I'm not a fan of stupid Christmas specials. One of the worst offenders, of course, is 'Twas the Night Before Christmas.
Surely you've seen this insipid tale of a clockmaker with a rodent problem. Joshua Trundle and his family, who all have ridiculously huge ears, painfully pointy chins, and bigger teeth than the Kennedy clan, discover that Santa is returning all of their letters unopened. How can this be? What's going on?
Turns out the family of mice Trundle's been breeding in his walls contains a pretty obnoxious rodent named Albert who managed to offend Santa Claus with his snotty attitude. Had Trundle put out some rat poison like every other normal human being who finds mouse droppings in the pantry, this problem would've never happened. But noooo, Trundle fancies himself the Mouse Whisperer or something, and actually lets these creatures run rampant throughout the house. You're creating your own problems there, Bucktooth.
Apparently, Albert the Mouse wrote a letter to the paper saying Santa was a fraud. Perhaps you're asking, Why does a mouse even care about Santa? Or even, Who taught a mouse to write? I'd personally be thinking Hold the poison, I think I might be able to make a few bucks off of this talking, writing rat, but that's just me. Trundle thinks none of these thoughts. Instead, he decides to solve the problem by building Santa a singing clock.
Now, everybody with half a brain knows that Santa is absolutely open to bribery, if you've got the right goods. Namely, cookies and milk, and maybe a carrot for Rudolph thrown in for good measure. Not, I repeat, NOT, a singing clock. Doesn't matter anyway--Albert, the obnoxious twerp that he is, breaks Trundle's clock before the hands can even be set to the correct time.
Albert's father is not amused. Papa Mouse drags his rotten little son to a children's hospital, where all of the sick kids are sobbing because Santa's throwing a temper tantrum over Albert's letter. Does this impressive guilt trip  cause Albert to repent? Heck no. However, when he overhears Bucktooth singing a song about miracles needing a hand, he melts like butter. What a load of crap. You've got a budding psychopath on your hands there, Papa Mouse.
Albert races to fix the clock before midnight. He fails, but at 12:01 AM, the song starts playing, wooing Santa back to town. Kids are cheering in the streets, which makes me wonder what the heck is wrong with the parents in Junctionville. Why is your kid even up at 12:01 AM, and outside in the streets wearing nothing but pajamas? It's freezing out! You are a BAD PARENT. Nobody in your house deserves a visit from Santa.
Santa comes anyway, which just exemplifies why this whole story is terrible. One little mouse writes a snotty letter and Santa's willing to pout like a petulant child and cut off the whole town from Christmas, but every single parent allows their brats to run rampant in the streets on Christmas Eve, and they're rewarded for it? Not to mention the little whiners in the children's hospital bawling all day. I don't think so. Santa will give you something to cry about. Personally, I'd like to think Santa has higher expectations than that for all of us.
What I'd like to see in this crappy holiday tale is a happy ending. Like, for instance, if Santa gifted the Trundle family with a nice new cat. Say, perhaps, one that comes from a long line of expert mousers.

When I'm feeling cranky and miserable this time of year, I like to put on the one holiday movie that's more cranky and miserable than me. I am, of course, referring to White Christmas.
This flick, starring Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, and Vera Ellen, is surprisingly enough, a musical. (What? Everyone knows Danny Kaye was best known for being a comedian.) This story is about the duo of Bob Wallace (Crosby) and Phil Davis (Kaye), who team up with the Haynes sisters to try and save a Vermont inn (owned by General Waverly, whom Bob and Phil served with in the war). Talk about a depressing group. Bob and Phil trade barbs from the get-go, and it sometimes seems as if Bob is irritated that Phil saved his life in the war. Because it surely must be a pain in the butt to have to admit that someone saved your life. Yup, that's rough.
Betty Haynes (Clooney) and Bob start bickering as soon as they meet. Clearly, they can't stand each other. Judy Haynes wants to skip town because she owes her landlord money. Phil is still trying to figure out what was so horrible about saving Bob's LIFE in the war. So of course it's just hilarious when all four of them wind up on a train together.
These nut jobs actually start singing about snow on the train ("I'll wash my hair in snow," Clooney warbles, clearly a sign of mental instability) and actually complain when they get off the train to warm weather. It's 65 degrees, in December, in Vermont. Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth! Though I'm sure they would have griped just as much if they'd gotten off the train in a blizzard, the ingrates.
Once Bob and Phil find out that the struggling inn that the girls are singing in is owned by their old General, they form a plan (at no small cost to themselves) to save it from financial ruin. They pay to have a cast, props, and costumes brought in to put on a huge show. They even arrange to have the event covered by a popular television show. Not only is the General not grateful, he's kind of rotten to them. He insults Bob and Phil's service as privates, and tries to re-enlist in the army. And somehow, Betty gets mad at Bob, and decides to leave town. Because he's being so selfish, trying to save the General's business and encouraging the man to try and enjoy his life as an innkeeper. I can see why she thinks he's such a jerk. (Why does she even care? When she's not smooching with Bob in the kitchen, she acts like she hates him. Then again, the woman washes her hair in snow.)
The show goes on, all of the old army men show up to cheer on their buddies and the General, and the inn is saved. The General immediately insults them all for not wearing ties, looking sloppy, and being undisciplined. (He might have muttered a thank you in there, but I can't remember.) More singing, griping, and smooching ensues, and in the end, it snows. And we all know that one good snowstorm in Vermont could keep you trapped inside until springtime. Careful what you wish for, I always say.
Yes, White Christmas is full of insults, complaints, and two gigantic ingrates (Hey General! They're saving your livelihood! And hey, Bob! Phil saved your LIFE!) So when I sound grumpy and grinchy this time of year, just remember. Someone saves my life, I say thank you.

Merry Christmas!

This time of year, "Baby It's Cold Outside" gets a lot of air time on the radio, which is dumb since it's not even a holiday song. I'm sure the deejays think it's appropriate, since who doesn't like Bing Crosby (besides his son, the actors he beat out to win Best Actor in 1944, Democrats, Grace Kelly, and rabid anti-golf people, I mean?) However, this is not a family friendly song, and should be pulled off the air immediately. Let's take a look:

Baby It's Cold Outside

I really can't stay - Baby it's cold outside
1.  I'm sure she's aware it's chilly out, Bing. If the woman wants to leave, let her leave.

I've got to go away - Baby it's cold outside
2. No means NO, Bing.

This evening has been - Been hoping that you'd drop in
So very nice - I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice
3. That's a little forward, Bing. Back off with the hand-holding!

My mother will start to worry - Beautiful, what's your hurry
My father will be pacing the floor - Listen to the fireplace roar
4. My father would be doing a little more than pacing. He'd be oiling his shotgun while looking up your address on Google Maps.

So really I'd better scurry - Beautiful, please don't hurry
5. Better let her out before Dad shows up, Bing!

Well Maybe just a half a drink more - Put some music on while I pour
6. Sure, liquor her up, you pig.

The neighbors might think - Baby, it's bad out there
Say, what's in this drink - No cabs to be had out there
7. Yes, what is that odd flavor I taste? Roofie?

I wish I knew how - Your eyes are like starlight now
To break this spell - I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell
8. Going to the hospital to have that roofie pumped out of your stomach might break the spell, if Bing would just let you leave already!

I ought to say no, no, no, sir - Mind if I move a little closer
9. NO means NO, Bing!

At least I'm gonna say that I tried - What's the sense in hurting my pride
10. I'm hoping she hurts something else of yours in a minute, Bing. One swift kick should do it.

I really can't stay - Baby don't hold out
11. @!$$!!* BING! SHE SAID NO!!!


Ahh, but it's cold outside
C'mon baby

I simply must go - Baby, it's cold outside
The answer is no - Ooh baby, it's cold outside
12. I'm calling the cops.

This welcome has been - I'm lucky that you dropped in
So nice and warm - Look out the window at that storm
13. That warm feeling is a side effect of the liquor and drugs he slipped you. Don't be fooled!

My sister will be suspicious - Man, your lips look so delicious
14. ...aaand he's a cannibal.

My brother will be there at the door - Waves upon a tropical shore
15. Huh?

My maiden aunt's mind is vicious - Gosh your lips look delicious
Well maybe just a half a drink more - Never such a blizzard before
16. Sounds like he thinks your lips would be perfect with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

I've got to go home - Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there
Say, lend me your comb - It's up to your knees out there
17. Never mind your hair. Just get out of there. Fast!

You've really been grand - Your eyes are like starlight now
But don't you see - How can you do this thing to me
18. Oops! Didn't get out fast enough!

There's bound to be talk tomorrow - Making my life long sorrow
At least there will be plenty implied - If you caught pneumonia and died
19. She should be so lucky to die of pneumonia instead of being raped, murdered and cooked in a stew.

I really can't stay - Get over that old out
20. Pig.

Ahh, but it's cold outside
Baby it's cold outside
21. What's a little frostbite if your life depends on it?

Jason gets mad at me when I heckle the radio. At least I'm smart enough to get the heck out when there's a cannibalistic rapist in the room, whatever the weather!

I’m not crazy about The Year Without a Santa Claus, and as you know, I despise Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but the one holiday cartoon that I hate more than a root canal is Frosty The Snowman. Just hearing this self-centered, nihilistic boob’s voice gives me the dry heaves.  Sometimes the wet heaves, too.

This cartoon starts off with a bunch ably-challenged children being let out of school on Christmas Eve. I’m assuming they’re challenged, because one of them actually says “snow is good” when they’re let out of class, which is, of course, crazy. They decide to build a snowman, and one of these special kids wants to name their creation “Oatmeal,” which further proves my case that these kids are challenged. But I digress.

The magician who was hired to entertain these kids on the last day of school before winter break tosses out his hat, which lands on Frosty’s head, bringing him to life. The first thing he says is “Happy Birthday!” which would be nice if he was remembering what Christmas is actually celebrating. But no, the selfish sacrilegious snowball is talking about his own birthday, which he clearly feels is more important than, say, the birthday of the son of God. What a pompous egomaniac!

As soon as this numbskull is born, he immediately starts complaining that it is so hot he's melting. Hey, stupid. Maybe you should have thought about that before coming to life in a temperate climate.

Frosty leads a parade through the center of town, scaring the bejeepers out of the townspeople. One poor policeman is so alarmed by the walking, talking snow abomination that he swallows his own traffic whistle, causing (I am sure) permanent damage to the man's trachea.  Frosty (I am sure) doesn't care.

Frosty now reveals his true nature. Instead of buying a train ticket to the North Pole like a decent snowman, he kidnaps a little girl, Karen, and hops in to a refrigerated boxcar, which, might I remind you, is illegal. Of course, the little girl that is stuck freight-hopping with Frosty starts to suffer from hypothermia and frostbite. Good job, Frosty. He bullies some woodland creatures into making her a fire, but then the magician, who simply wants the hat Frosty stole from him back, blows out the fire. Apparently this scrawny magician has the lung capacity of the wolf from the Three Little Pigs, which I never would have guessed from looking at him.

The highlight of this nauseating cartoon is when Frosty and Karen find a greenhouse in the middle of the frozen tundra … as you do. Inside the greenhouse, Frosty melts to a puddle in what I like to think of as a slow, agonizing death. Then Santa comes along and, proving he is looooong overdue to retire, brings him back to life.  Really, Santa, what are you thinking?  Frosty just kidnapped a kid and tried to freeze her to death! Also, I was taught that only one being was ever able to die and then rise from the grave, but I believe we've already established that this cartoon was written by a bunch of atheists. And really, who needs Jesus when you've got a self-centered, parading snow terrorist to worship? 

The only nice thing that I can say about this cartoon is that at least it ends before Frosty can insist that Christmas be renamed in his honor. I say, bring on the sun!