The Domestic Terrorist

HAPPY CHRISTMAS

I’m always grumpy near Christmas. Not necessarily near Christmas, but all the time. Grumpy is the skin I wear. Honestly. I’m sure you’ve noticed if you’ve read anything I’ve ever written. Now my ex-wife will no doubt tell you, should you ask, that I’m always grumpy. I used to be grumpy because I was married - now I’m considerably less so.

Now it’s not because the sun gets up at 9 o clock in the morning and sets at 1.30 in the afternoon. It’s not because there is weather. It’s not because of the cold, or the rain, or the biting, evil wind. Nor is it for the late-running trains and the low-flying reindeers.

No, it’s because of Christmas. Now, as agnostic, I don’t believe in the Bunny Jesus, or Religion, or any of that stuff. Well, not until I see a 900 foot Jesus striding out of the Alabama desert with thunderbolts firing out of his fingertips.

But you know, I’ve got no choice in the matter. You’ve got to take the benefits of religion as well as the burdens. Personally, I’d rather trade off four days a year in order to negate the possibility of the Jihad Armageddon. But since I’ve got no choice about the end of the world, nor any choice in avoiding the Muslim-Capitalist Armageddon faceoff, I might as well get a few days holiday as part of the bargain.

But I don’t believe in celebrating the birthday of someone who may or may not have ever existed, and is responsible for at wasting at least 50 hours of my life every school year singing hymns in praise of a Lord that the jury is still out on. Oh, and also responsible for an enormous amount of war, death and cruelty. I don’t think that’s worth celebrating myself.

So how do we celebrate the birth of the good Bunny Jesus (according to the Chocolate Easter Testament of the Bible)? By telling the children that a big man with a white beard who looks oddly like God is going to shimmy down the drainpipe and drop off big boxes of stuff?

Sounds like a big con to me. An excuse to bolster up the economy with a credit card cash injection. And some promise of a holiday to keep the unhappy workers holding on just a few more days, because Christmas is coming. An opiate for the masses.

So shut up, and enjoy your Christmas, because it’s just a few days respite amongst the 220 days of paid employment (or underpaid dole existence). of your life. And it’s ending one year at a time.

Oh, and did I tell you? Happy Christmas. And I do mean that. Despite being the grumpiest curmudgeon in the whole of my place.

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