Every winter, I have fond memories of the holidays when I was a child. I went to this charter school for the gifted and talented, pyromaniacs, and kids with a bad glue-huffing habit. (It was an “or” thing; you didn’t have to test well, sniff Testor’s, AND get caught spraying a hobo with gasoline; any one of those three was fine.) Most of my teachers were 60s hippie types that made us sing songs about hemp farming and replace pronouns to honor all genders, so we didn’t spend a lot of time decorating Christmas trees or writing lists to Santa. Most years, we spent a lot of time reading about Druids and potato famines, although my second grade teacher, Mrs. Finkelstein, introduced me to Laveyan Satanism and had all of us puke in a ceremonial chalice for the Firestorm. (She later got busted for securities fraud, and when I was in high school, I used to mail care packages of King Diamond bootlegs and pruno ingredients to her in prison.)
I had a neighbor, Mr. Iommi, who used to invite over kids to snort lines of egg nog during the Christmas. He had a son, Bologna, born without any internal organs, kept alive with an experimental NASA exoskeleton and a Honda ATV with a special cart that hauled around a primitive heart-lung and dialysis machine. (A made-for-TV movie was made about his life, starring John Travolta, but it was badly done and glossed over details like how Bologna Iommi spent his days playing Atari 5200, and compulsively masturbating to snuff films, while eating Jello, sometimes using the Jello as lube. He’d later work as a key grip on a couple of David Cronenberg movies, but lose all of his money on the bootleg teeth whitener fiasco of 1998.)
I never liked snorting egg nog, especially the high-test stuff Mr. Iommi would concoct in his kitchen, using soy milk and Kingsford charcoal lighter. “Don’t drink it, you fairies, SNORT IT!” he would yell, holding a loaded snub-nose .44 bulldog to our heads, spinning the chamber, pulling back the hammer. He hobbled around on a cane, and looked a lot like Charles Manson, if Charlie poorly cross-dressed in get-ups bought at a Fashion Bug. “SNORT THE NOG! HAIL SATAN!” he would scream. Then, with the taste of eggs and butane in my throat, I’d go kick Bologna’s ass at Q*Bert.
I lived in one of those annoying subdivisions where everyone judged your place in life by how many toxic chemicals you paid one of those Chemlawn places to spray down on your yard. There was a homeowner’s association that mostly did a lot of racial profiling, but had an annual Christmas decoration contest. To most of these Izod-wearing motherfucker, this meant wrapping every single surface with K-Mart lights, throwing a plastic Santa on the roof, and blasting some new-age fake-ass solstice crap through three thousand watts of distorted all-weather speakers. Even though our subdivision was adjacent to a nuclear reactor plant, we’d have frequent brown-outs in December when these fuckers would start installing klieg lights and commercial ski resort-quality snow machines, jockeying for the grand prize, a $50 gift certificate to a local Ponderosa steakhouse.
My parents worked four or five different jobs and didn’t have time for this shit, so they usually left me free reign on a MasterCharge account and let me decorate the front yard. “I don’t care what you spend, but no more John Wayne Gacy-themed dioramas. I don’t want the FBI digging through our basement again,” my dad told me. Fair enough, but I wasn’t going to show up at the Farm and Fleet with unlimited credit and erect yet another tribute to a two-thousand year old religious prophet by hoarding a bunch of crap invented by Coca-Cola and Montgomery Ward in the last 50 years. I wanted to go historical on everyone’s ass. For example, when I was nine, I did a historically-accurate Rape of Nanking Christmas display, depicting the 1937 battle for the capitol of the Republic of China by the Japanese Imperial Army, and the ensuing atrocities. I did not win the contest, and our house got firebombed by some radical Japanese gang, but I did get free Chinese food for a year.
After our school let us out for the two-week Celebration of the Solstice and Mandatory Recognition of the So-Called Messiah Cock-Oppressor Jesus As Required by State Law, we’d binge on junk food and prescription cold medication, then visit my grandparents, who operated an illicit dog track and unlicensed plastic surgery clinic just outside of Muncie, Indiana. There was all of the usual Christmas stuff: games of Russian roulette, fried goat anus treats dusted with a thin layer of cocaine, the annual showing of the classic Christmas movie, Surf Nazis Must Die. But I don’t remember these rituals as much as how me and all of my cousins would go to this tattoo parlor in downtown Muncie and pool together all of our Christmas money and buy a bootleg Stinger missile from a former Nicaraguan freedom fighter that did wicked tats of characters from Roseanne Barr sitcoms. (He was really good too: did all of the shading and everything.) Then we’d get fucked up on some kind of fortified wine, and take the missile to the Delaware County regional airport in hopes of shooting down a multi-engine prop plane before we lost our buzz. It wasn’t even about the actual joy of watching a Cessna 421 fireball and kill everyone onboard; it was more about the sense of family and togetherness involved in illegally purchasing an antiaircraft weapon and dragging it to a small airport via BMX bike after consuming a large amount of malt liquor on a cold winter day.
And that’s what Christmas is really about, isn’t it? So whether you’re attempting to kill two of every animal you can find as a sacrifice to Lucifer, our master, for the Firestorm, or you’re just watching some football with your family, and hoping you black out before the voices in your head tell you to watch A Christmas Story again, I hope you have a happy holiday.