Grocery shopping becomes a nerve wracking, lethal exercise of hazard avoidance in a mine field of venomous shoppers. Christmas predators, hunting. With waves of Christmas music hammering senses, and deadening what little compassion remains, until an apologetic "excuse me" to a kindly looking, old gentleman in the canned food sections elicits a shrieked "kiss my ass" as he drops his cane and oxygen tank, and lobs a can of cranberry sauce at your head.
Television shows take a decidedly holiday turn. Grisly murders are investigated by well dressed police detectives working out of a precinct adorned with all sorts of bright, happy decorations. Snowmen, elves, reindeer, Santa, everywhere you turn. There is no refuge.
Kids are out of school, but you are stuck at work. A year end evaluation is looming. Rain clouds on the horizon. But, you don't have time to think about that. You are too busy. In part because no one is doing anything. Christmas is beginning to drive people mad. Everywhere you look people are wearing garish, gaudy sweaters, bright, ridiculous creations too awful for a golfer. With their hands wrapped around Santa mugs, filled with with warm cider. Smiling, joking, laughing, not working, it just makes you sick. You hope they don't start caroling.
If there is a war on Christmas, Christmas fired the first shot. And has been on the offensive ever since. Santa and his jackbooted minions are rolling across the country, unimpeded. Smashing, grabbing, sturming and dranging, all over the place. Succumb, or perish, those are your choices.
I'm only kidding, Santa. Don't forget, I have been pretty good this year. I emailed my list last week, would you like me to fax a copy, FedEx? Whatever is best, big guy.