Who Is Warren Christmas?

Il Natale di Buffo Guatto: Gloria im Extupido!

Greg:

You know I never use my letters to talk about the media and current events. I believe that both of those things are like boils and will go away eventually, no matter how bothersome they are at the moment. There's just this one thing that has me freakin' boggled. It's one of those times when you've just stopped paying attention because you thought it couldn't possibly get more ridiculous than this, that human beings can't possibly be that retarded en masse. And right about then, they go and raise the bar - practically build a damn monument to Buffo Guatto, the God of Stupidity. (I just made that shit up. There wasn't a Buffo Guatto until sentence before last. But you can rest assured that he just popped into existence on some corner of the universe, most likely at the corner of Mullet and Meathead in Philadelphia, PA.)

The War on Christmas? I'm agape. I can't even get upset over this one. It's too friggin stupid to believe. And yet it gets enormous airplay on Fox. Then again, enormous airplay on Fox is probably the metric by which all stupendous obtusery should be measured. "Did it play on Fox? How much? Well there you go."

Last night on The Daily Show, Jon Stewart copped to it. He and he alone is the enemy in the War on Christmas. And he "will not rest until every year families gather to spend December 25th together at Osama's homo-abortion-pot-and-commie-jizzporium". So there's something to look forward to, certainly.

Okay, but that's not even the best part. Henry Ford pulled this same BS back in the 20s (blaming the Jews), and The John Birch Society, too busy being dicks to come up with an original idea, recycled it in 1959 (blaming the Reds). And then, Bill O'Reilly, taking the ball from - oh what's his name - Zipperhead McDouchebag, the guy who wrote the book - goes and blames the lib-brrlz. My question to Mister O'Reilly is this: do you just not have enough spine to blame, say, the Negroes? Or the Guineas? Or the Beaners? C'mon. At least take a swing at some segment of society that isn't imaginary. Blame the Lithuanians. But he won't, and you know why? Because all of the aforementioned groups are armed. They have zero shit tolerance. They will kick, cut, split, and stack thirty cords of his honky ass and burn it in the pot-bellied stove to offset their heating bills this winter. (O'Reilly fully realizes how much ass he has, owns oil stocks, and therefore fears this.)

Okay. So. Anyway. Screw all that. If we wanna go back far enough, the mere celebration of Christmas is in point of fact a War on Yule. Remember: Christmas is a Christian perversion/subversion of that pagan holiday. Ergo, if you really wanna have a War on Christmas, celebrate Yule. You get to burn stuff, drink stuff, and do the nasty (required). How ossum is that? So strap on a set of horns, quaff some ale, and get as snockered as Buffo Guatto, there's a war on!

Gloria in Obnoxious Dei,

-Thaddeus

Holly Jolly Oligarchy!

These poor lil' bastards will never know what hit 'em.

Greg:

What is it about the holidays that makes everyone freak out? And by "freak out" I mean the most negative inference of that otherwise jolly term. I have seen footage of the Wal-Mart melee and its ilk - shoppers trampled, knuckles bruised, wigs rent asunder - an aggregate of events nationwide which are sadly becoming an annual celebration of carnage and cruelty on the scale of the Omak Stampede. However, the extent to which the proletariat freaks out by and large doesn't alarm me. I only wonder why the proletariat doesn't freak out far more often than it already does, in other words, why it takes an impending holiday to catalyze wig-rending behaviors. No, it is my own state of mind which shows an alarming rise in what I'd call "holiday hubris" that is my real concern.

To wit: This year, I became an oligarch.

Long story short: I freaked out, went to Ace Hardware, and purchased half-a-dozen miniature decorative porcelain houses. I set them up on my sideboard, and proclaimed myself Lord God King Daddy of Holidaytown. It was almost like the Republican Blowout of Y2K4. They didn't even see it coming...until they heard the booming-yet-lugubrious laugh of their new ruler from somewhere far, far across the dining room.

To be clear, I practice oligarchy under full protection of the Kirkpatrick Doctrine. (You may say, "hey - how is that oligarchy if you and you alone are the ruler of this tiny porcelain village?" My nearly invisible co-conspirators in this plutocracy are Seattle City Light who control the flow of electricity and the Uwajimaya Village Apartments who actually hold title to the land under the sideboard on which the village sits. I give both of these parties "kickbacks" each month in the form of "rent" and "utilities" in order to secure their silence and complicity.)

Now, moving on:

My subjugation of that tiny hamlet nearly complete, and the sweet tang of unopposed rulership swollen forty-fold in my bosom to almost Bush-like proportions, I am began to feel the urge once again to brave the winter night and scurry out to Ace Hardware where I might annex another ten - nay, twelve! - porcelain domiciles (at clearance prices).

But then, the wife threw down the kybosh. She claims that there isn't room enough in our 1,080 sq. ft. 2BR 2BA apartment for her, me, several tiny porcelain houses, and my ego. At least twelve of those things would have to go.

So here's my conundrum. There's no court in this land higher than The Wife, so any appeals on the matter are kaput. However, there is rather a clever loophole: there's nothing saying that I can't receive tiny porcelain houses as gifts from my brother for Christmas.

In closing, I implore, if you have an ounce of Christmas spirit, and are in the mood to support an fledgling nation-state and its kindly dictator, please purchase a tiny porcelain from Ace Hardware online (at clearance prices - some as low as $7 American - and free shipping, too...maybe) and have it shipped forthwith to my address. The Fatherland thanks you.

And now I must depart, as I feel the clench of madness in my hinderparts.

Merry Christmas!

-Thaddeus