How to Deal with Holidays (any of them)

No, this does not involve guns, hookers, or cocaine, although you should feel absolutely free to rely on such standards, should you feel inclined–it’s fuckin’ America, after all.  If you’re not in America, you’re probably already closer to knowing where I’m going, especially if you’re in the place that birthed that filth of the Victorian era:  Charles Dickens.  Fuck you, Charlie–nobody needs to waste 20 minutes reading through a description of fucking curtains.

As my kinda-favorite TV show, Fast ‘N Loud, moves very close to jumping the shark and hitting the uppermost bell limit on the bullshit meter, I find myself drawn more and more to Moonshiners, another instant classic from Discovery Channel.  While this show is also of course bullshit, in that it’s a “reality” show, where people in theoretical danger are pursued by people with camera crews wielding bright lights, it’s cool in the sense that it’s exploring real American culture.  The show features Southern goofballs risking whatever they have to lose to make some deep-forest booze to sell and make money–not without sampling copiously, of course.  This, motherfuckers, is America, not that Wall St. bullshit; there is a bit of Hollywood here, though…

So to return to my intended topic, I hate Christmas; this is of course the result of a totally American 1980s latchkey childhood, where by the age of 12, I’d realized that the best way to deal with substandard parentage was to get a job and not wait for the good shit to rain down on me on holidays (it wasn’t coming).  At this point in life, some choose to sell dope, steal shit, murder people, or do really good in school, in the hope that their parents will grow money out of their ears and suddenly find the ability to produce money they don’t have.  Others are in church and do altar boy things; fortunately, I’ve only been in a church about three times in my life.  I found a few different jobs, but the best was my paper routes (2); motherfuckers paid me to ride my bike every day.  In other words, I learned to get what I want by working for a living, rather than waiting for shit to fall into my hand (yeah, Roots!).  No problem, yo!

People are assholes, and they can’t shrug off the chips on their shoulders or resist their petty sense of competition on the one fucking day or two they see relatives who might have come from 2000 or 100 miles away, for just a few fucking minutes.  I haven’t much internal suspension for such crap, but I love my wife, so I’m willing to tolerate it one more time.  Here’s the secret:

George, with moonshine.

George, with moonshine.

I’m on my second jar of this stuff.  This is the version with cherries in it; it’s 100-proof, and it’s like the best cough syrup your parent would never let you have.  It’s fucking awesome, and in theory, there are also some vitamins in there.  Please, do yourself the favor of getting some of this stuff.  Put some in a flask, and save the cherries for when you get back home.  How awesome is that?  When the jar runs dry, you’ve got this awesome pile of booze-soaked cherries–it’s like dessert after you’ve made the effort to get good and fucked up!


So what’s my point here?  Oh, it’s this:  Get fucked up for the good of familial relations.  If they think you’re a drunk, who cares?  At least you’re willing to talk to the weirdos in the family…

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