Throwing Poo

It’s almost Thanksgiving!  To some that means opening your home to cretinous family members who spew out violent, spittle-laced racial epithets, decimate your liquor cabinet, and grope your unsuspecting teenage foreign-exchange student (“Hey, that’s mine! Get your own!).  To others, it means a trip to the hospital for a festive stomach pumping after overdosing on a mixture of un-oaked Chardonnay, tryptophan and “Christmas Story” reruns.

To me, it means that it is finally OK to start listening to Christmas music.  While I could certainly do without the seasonal decorations, Frost-bitten testicles (as in Daniel Frost, the mentally-disabled child in my neighborhood who thinks that everything round and red is candy), and grating commercials, I do loves me some Christmas music.  But the rule is not until the day after Thanksgiving.  Similar to drinking hard liquor before noon, it is a craving with which I must daily do battle.

Like a punk junkie in a filthy flophouse who lays out his needles in anticipation of the next fix, I have been eagerly preparing for this moment by purchasing and uploading numerous Christmas CDs onto my iPod.  We’re not talking about Bing Crosby, Elvis Presley, or Ella Fitzgerald or any of that boring shit.  I’m no vestal virgin, no sober Spartan, no temperate teetotaler.  I’ve got a Christmas music monkey on my back the size of King Kong, and I need some crazy hardcore shit to get my ring-jing-jingalings off.

This year’s selections include New Orleans Jazz Christmas, Flamenco Christmas, and African Drum Christmas.  I’m so excited that I can’t stop peeing.  The only problem is that come Friday, I won’t be able to listen to every song all at once.  If only I were in the Matrix and could insert these songs directly into my brain.

I am Neo, and I’m about to learn Christmas Kung Fu.