An open letter.

Dear Christmas,

Hey buddy. How are things? I wanted to write to you and find out why you’re trying to steal my thunder. Like, I get it. You’re the son of god’s birthday (which is totally bigger than P.Diddy’s white party) but I’m just asking for a little breathing room. Some time to shine. First of all, there are a bunch of problems with the way we celebrate you in the first place. A strange man shimmies down the world’s chimney, puts a bunch of presents under some pine-needly tree that really makes a total mess of any room they’re in, then peaces out but not until he’s eaten your food, left a bunch of sooty footprints on your carpet and made your dogs bark like he’s the postman walking a pack of German Shepherds. Someone needs to explain to me why the second Halloween wraps up, everyone gets a week to get over their sugar comas and then starts listening to “Jingle Bells” and “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” (which everyone fails to remember is about a sexual advance that is of questionable intent), drinking out of red Starbucks cups and decking out their patios with red and green icicle lights.

Where’s my recognition? I’m the one day of the year where it is not only socially acceptable, but also encouraged, to binge eat and then pass out on the couch and watch football. Like seriously, I am every man’s fantasy. Forget busty women in a bikini, I’m the one who’s letting you eat till you can’t breathe and then watch sports for the rest of the evening while your wives and girlfriends clean up your mess. I mean, hello? What more do I have to do to get a little respect?

It’s not enough that I feel totally unappreciated at the beginning of November, when it’s finally my month, but imagine if it was you, and I remembered your birthday a week before. I forgot to throw anything together because I was too focused on my other friend’s birthday (we’ll call him Jesus) and instead, just called up Honeybaked Ham, asked them to throw together a nice muffin basket and just sent it on over. Then, a month later, you saw me throw together the most show-stoppingly awesome party of all time and you feel horribly left out and you sit and wonder why your friend Jesus got such an awesome party when all you got was a measly muffin basket. Well I’ve had it.

I get it; a lot of people may debate my legitimacy. Sure, my roots may have been founded on being an unwelcomed guest to a party, taking the credit for a giant meal that wasn’t even cooked by my people but tradition is tradition, man. A guy can only feel so helpless. I can’t help the way I was created. I can’t help if you disagree. I am a product of my circumstances. People wore hats with buckles back then. Everyone was dying of smallpox. Shit was crazy. Like Mama Monster said: I’m on the right track, baby, I was born this way.

I even tried to spice it up by arranging this giant parade in New York City. What could be better than 50-foot balloons in the shape of your favorite characters floating down 7th Avenue? Yeah, the road closures are kind of a bitch but I’m doing the best I can here. I can’t really fix all the world’s problems like that guy in the red suit claims he can. Plus, you get to see Al Roker in mittens and a fedora and honestly, what’s more adorable than that? The Thanksgiving Day parade is one of the best standing traditions to ever exist. And no, don’t tell me the Rose Parade is better because it’s not. Floats made of flowers? Whatever. You don’t have Kanye West rapping on a Build-A-Bear Workshop float riding down the middle of the street while grown men in animal suits holding ribbon wands prance in circles and throw glitter at the people that have woken up and stood outside to watch at least four days in advance. As far as parades go, I’ve got this one on lock.

Give me a little credit, okay? I deserve more excitement than just a week’s notice. Quit arguing over where I’m gonna be celebrated, only invite over the people you know will bring those incredible sweet potatoes with brown sugar on top (non of that marshmallow shut, we’re not communists) and sit back, eat until you can’t think straight, get all loopy on tryptophan and remember how great I am.

I can tell you what’s not great: having to explain to your five year old why dad’s handwriting look’s a lot like “Santa’s”, telling your kids to bake cookies to leave out when you’re just going to eat them yourself (only proliferating this grand illusion) and having to lug out that bushy tree before you start bleeding over onto Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday.

Can we just relax for a minute? Can we show my boy Squanto some love? (you know Jacob from “Twilight”? He’s like that guy only like, fifty times hotter. Trust me. We hang out). I mean, the nation has even done me a favor and waited until the day after to start officially shopping for you (except damn, this year some stores are really pushing it and opening the doors at midnight. It’s like, come on, give me a break) so can you at least wait until then to start decorating and selling things at an unreasonably low price?

In closing, all I’m asking for is a little credit. You’re like the Michael Jordan of holidays. You’re everyone’s favorite. Even the non-Christians (shout out to Diwali). Don’t shove yourself down our throats. We like you, just let some of us other holidays get some. I heard Veteran’s Day has been in counseling for like four score and seven years. Can you just wait to put out your decorations up until I’ve had my time in the spotlight?

Gobble gobble, bitches. Pilgrim out.


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