BannedCast

I recommend that you take a moment to listen—I mean really sit and listen to the lyrics of those Christmas carols that you so freely sing without a moment’s consideration as to the twisted sentiments to which you’re giving voice.

Below I have compiled a list of the most egregious lyrical offenses, and I plan to add more soon. Because after a few more quarts of eggnog later this evening, I will surely have occasion to remark on not a few more lyrics that I don’t recall just now through this holiday oxycontin haze.

Exhibit A: Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Firstly, what in the fuck is a new bird? I’ve checked every autobahn book in my house, and I can find no reference to a species, genera, or family of bird called the “new.” Furthermore, what in the hell did you do with the preexisting blue bird? This sounds more like a thinly veiled threat of violent genocide than it does some benign Christmas sentiment, and I for one reject any and all holocausts that don’t target Justin Bieber’s fanbase, which leaves blue birds, until proven otherwise, on my list of species that should be allowed to pursue their own destiny.

Also, what if I happen to be building a snowman in the meadow with my childhood best friend, Dustin? If that snowman somehow contravenes the physical laws of space and time to animate himself in order to ask us if we’re married, he’s gonna find himself on the receiving end of a foot up his ass.

Lastly, any kids that so much as even think about knocking down my and Dustin’s snowman, be he dressed as a parson or circus clown or otherwise, had better be prepared to get a foot up their ass, too, because Dustin and I build snowmen as an expression of our strong, passionately platonic bond of friendship, and we don’t tolerate any such nonsense.

Exhibit B: Jingle Bells

This song royally sucks Dasher’s donkey-sized dick, and if you come around here singing it, your anus is also gonna find itself on the losing end of my size 12 Sketchers because there ain’t nothing fun about riding in a one-horse open sleigh.

Who in holy goddamn hell prefers that as their primary mode of conveyance? My 1991 Chevy Camaro IROC-Z has a 5.7 liter, 350 cubic-inch engine worth 230 goddamn horses, so just what in the hell makes you think that I would want to sit behind a paltry single horse who’ll shit at least half a dozen times between my house and the nearest 7-Eleven on a midnight run for another case of Strough’s?

You’d have more luck picking up pussy driving a Toyota Yaris than you would with some lame-ass sleigh towed by a school-girl’s idea of a loving pet.

Exhibit C: Santa Claus is Coming to Town

According to this song, I had better neither pout nor cry in the days leading up to Christmas, but come the 26th of December, it’s up to me to convince myself that my life isn’t a total failure and that I shouldn’t climb to the top of the nearest bell tower with a banana clip and start picking off all of the simian shit-eaters who consistently make my life miserable.

Also, the only person who should know whether I’m awake or sleeping is that Vietnamese guy who lives down the street and has a penchant for peeking into neighbors’ windows at four in the morning. Furthermore, he doesn’t have any reindeer, and the only “gifts” he tends to leave behind are cigarette butts and the occasional semen stain on the window sill.  

In sum, I cannot wait until yet another Christmas season is over and we can put the goddamn Christmas carols away until next year. In the meantime, I’ll get back to listing all of the ways that those Walmart greeters fail to make me feel welcome when I arrive for my Sunday morning shopping. Because I’m damn sure not leaving my beer outside.

Yours,