Contact, Vol. VI: CHRISTMAS EDITION

Shrewd business people who make money off diamonds or fossil fuels were obviously naughty children; they received nothing but coal.

The way humans countdown to Christmas, one would think you only live for one day of the year that celebrates a fictitious birthday, surrounding a fictitious man who exploits underprivileged workers for slave labor to perform a fictitious task, promoting a false sense of happiness only guaranteed at the shallow end of the day when material items are exchanged as acts of love, all washed down with enough food to plug up the Titantic. But…no judgement…whatever jingles your bells.

Mrs. Claus is slowly killing her husband with diabetes.

We exchange gifts in our species. When we don’t set a theme for our secret gift exchange, someone always gets stuck with an abducted human from your Midwest.

Y’all praise Santa Claus for visiting every city in the world all in one night, but no praise for Stephen Hawking for figuring out how? Stephen Hawking IS your Santa Claus.

A kiss under the mistletoe is just a holly jolly way to transmit herpes.

Egg nog is baby vomit and if you’re lucky, it turns into adult vomit by adding rum.

Christmas is a holiday for arson; attaching electrical lights to a dead tree, roasting chestnuts over an open flame, burning a yule log a cinder, and gathering a bunch of fattened, alcohol-infused family members to discuss why you never see each other.

It seems like you can promote this holiday as a season of giving all you want, someone always ends up disappointed; unless you go to a Honda dealership, or he went to Jared’s, or you shop at Macy’s.

Your Christmas”holiday revolves around a fat man, dressed in red, committing the largest home invasion coup every year, laughing maniacally as he gets away with it.