HAPPY HUMBUG

Old Scrooge had it right, before they brainwashed him. The holiday season is humbug, pure and simple.
To properly celebrate the coldest, darkest and meanest time of the year we should lock our doors. Hunker down with the remote and a bag of Cheetos. Give our cell phone away. And brood.
Life is too short to clutter up with happy thoughts and joyful song.
So burn that tree and douse the yule log. Dump the eggnog and snap the candy canes. Scatter those carolers with buckshot. What has Santa and his pint-sized minions ever done for you, except conjure up unfulfilled desires? The only good reindeer is one you can serve up as a steak. I say we use this time of year to write poison pen letters to ex-spouses and our ungrateful children. Deck the halls with black crepe. Eat prunes and cracked-wheat bread. Trade Jack Frost for Jack Daniels. Dribble Frosty the Snowman with colored syrup and make sno-cones out of the dumb SOB. Put every stinking CD of Bing Crosby, Andy Williams and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir into a nuclear warhead and shoot it at Tehran -- Season's Greetings, you whirling dervishes!
Tell your children that not only is there no such thing as Jolly Old Saint Nick but that there ain't even enough good air for them to breath past their twenty-fifth birthday.
Purge Rudolph and the Grinch and Charlie Brown from every form of media. Make mention of their name good for a one-way ticket to Guantanamo.
And for goodness sake stop prating about peace on earth and goodwill toward men! We've just elected more people to prolong the bloodbath in Iraq.
Then, and only then, will we be undistracted enough to ponder that manure-stained hovel in Bethlehem, where angels could sing but man could only tremble.