I’m not sure you heard the reports where you are (be you in New Jersey or not), but the above big ass Santa was seen stomping across the suburban landscape where I live, supposedly lighting out from my home to locales unknown to spread his particular brand of big ass Santa cheer. Be on the lookout.
It’s a wacky time of year for Christians and all those who celebrate Christmas, be one of the brand or not. The shopping, the cookie making, the eating, the celebrating…and now, this big ass Santa comin’ round. We could surely call this more a holidaze than holidays,
I had occasion to recall with my oldest friend, Tom, a humorous riff we read as young teens from a Penthouse Magazine. Trying to figure out where we came upon a Penthouse back before you could just scroll to a site for some salacious stuff when neither of our dads would ever have had a Penthouse in the house (a Playboy, maybe), my buddy and I couldn’t come up with the hows and whys of acquiring the magazine way back when. But we had, read it, and had laughed like goons. Written by John Delaney Ford for a 1973 issue, “The Twelve Days of Christmas” it can be read/seen here: SPRINTACULAR: The Twelve Days of Christmas.
Thank you, SPRINTACULAR, for posting this so Tom could find it, send it to me, and I could hip you all to it. It’s a wacky extrapolation of the classic poem that got me thinking (some of which I discussed with Tom) about some of these holiday songs. Beyond the obvious avian invasion of Twelve Days (and with all those maids-a-milking–and milking what, I ask?–should those five golden rings be cock rings?), there’s all that freaking racket the Little Drummer Boy makes around a newborn baby (even if the baby is the supposed king of kings). And for that matter, what’s with the gold, frankincense, and myrrh? Sure, these were “money, and money’s worth” as Matthew Henry describes them, but as practical gifts? How about a year’s supply of diapers?
Jesus, don’t these supposed wise men know anything?
And Rudolph? Seems like there is some diversity shaming going on there, no? If I had been the little guy with the red nose, you can bet where I would have told Santa to go when he came asking for my help. FU and your sleigh, old man!
One can have fun deconstructing these songs and traditions all day. Just this every evening, my dear folks are hosting what stands as the Italian Seven Fishes Christmas Eve feast. This tradition in my family has been going strong for some sixty years, and it is, by far, one of, if not my favorite, celebration. But we barely make it to seven fishes, stuffed to the gills (sorry) with food. By the time we get to that last fish we are all feeling like Mr. Creosote from the classic Monty Python film The Meaning of Life, declaring “I can’t eat another bite.”
Of course, there are the desserts to contend with and contend we do.
God, the gluttony.
I so love this holiday.
From too many birds squawking around your house to big ass Santa stomping across the land, to a nose that glows, to gorging on cookies, may you enjoy whatever celebrations you enjoy, or just have a lovely few days, if indeed you don’t celebrate anything.
Happy holidaze, one and all.
