I Was Born On Christmas, And I Am Ready To Burn This Holiday To The Ground
When my mother brought me into the world one fated yuletide morning, she called me “the greatest Christmas present ever.” Little did she know the disappointment this dark day would yield. After enduring a lifetime of hollow birthday dirges, leftover cookies, and presents wrapped in Hanukkah paper, I have had enough. If there is a war on Christmas, I am its general.
I grew up believing that December was a month-long celebration of my birth. Lights were hung, trees were trimmed, and bearded white men abounded, entirely for me. That was until I realized that this wasn’t about me at all. I soon learned that all of this merry-making was for a man named Jesus who had been dead for a really long time. Word has it that he was super nice, but isn’t it time to move on already — to me?
That nativity scene you petitioned your mayor to display in front of City Hall? You can switch out that tired tableau for a monument to my coronation. In that monument, I will be seated atop a gigantic birthday cake while my parents look on adoringly. They will be like Mary and Joseph, but with more stylish clothes. My uncle Joe, my brother, and his husband (hey, Bobby & Eric!) can be the three wise men. They’ll toast me with flutes of Dom Perignon while I wave off their attention from the throne. I’m humble like that.
I also heard that these wise men gave Jesus frankincense, myrrh, and gold. I am not very new-agey, so you can donate the myrrh and frankincense to whoever in your neighborhood is pedaling essential oils these days. I’ll take the gold, though—it will be perfect for my crown. I also expect you to toss in a few rubies, emeralds, and diamonds to atone for the mountain of cubic zirconia I’ve received in Christmases past. This is how I’ll determine who’s been naughty or nice, so you better belly up with that silver and gold.
Speaking of “Silver and Gold,” the time has come for your carols to go the way of Hell’s bells. Instead, deck the halls with palm fronds — palm fronds that you can fan me with. As for that Christmas tree shedding all over my Angela Adams rug — I say let it burn, let it burn, let it burn. It’s probably a safe bet that you’ve heard your last noel, too.
O come all ye faithless! Join me in placing a gag order on Bing Crosby. I am ready to saddle up Rudolph and ride him, like a beast of the apocalypse, to deliver rough justice to all of the other reindeer. The laughter and name-calling that Rudolph knows so well will feel like child’s play next to my “reindeer games.” On our way we’ll be sure to swing by Santa’s place to help him file his retirement papers. He’s overdue for a break, and let’s face it, he’s been on thin ice ever since Donner trampled your grandma back in ‘79.
So the next time you’re at Starbucks and you’re wondering who that willowy woman is on the cup, wonder no more. It’s me. I have incinerated this holiday in a blaze of flammable wrapping paper. I have taken over as CEO of Santa Corps and trained the elves to do my bidding—ousting a certain commander-in-chief. Now is the time to kiss that mistletoe goodbye, because from here on in, it’s all about me.