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We are all apathetic, blithering idiots

There’s always one elderly person at Christmas dinner who blurts out something racist. It’s almost a tradition. The hosts usually try to pass it off as a lovable trait. “Oh, he was just born in an era when it was okay to assume minorities were plotting to steal your laundry. Also, he’s very old, so rest assured he’ll likely die from a common cold soon. Possibly even tomorrow.”

We’ve spent our whole lives assuming we could never be that elderly bigot. We don’t have any prejudices. We share Huffpost “Black Voices” links on social media all the time! We’ve hugged Gay Americans without making boner jokes. We never cross the street to avoid certain types of people. Except for homeless people, but they encompass all races, so that’s fine.

Yep, we’re pretty damn perfect. It’s hard to believe that one single generation of human beings could be so amazingly perfect and open-minded. I mean, nobody says “homo” on TV anymore. That’s awesome. Let’s all stop and pat ourselves on the back. While doing that, let’s turn on the news to pass the time.

So you invited someone who hates people to your holiday party

I like parties. The unpredictable drunkenness and chaos, the weird mixed drinks made of random household items that may or may not have been mixed in a bathtub, loud music that makes serious conversation impossible, dark rooms full of attractive people you have a solid 50/50 chance of sleeping with because you’re all young and pretty so, meh, why not? The fact that no one present will remember anything the next morning, thereby removing all pressure to be mature or interesting.

Oh, I’m sorry. I was describing a party from my college days. Or possibly an illegal opium den. The invite you sent me is to an adult holiday party. While the word “adult” makes it sound slightly pornographic, rest assured that nothing could be further from the truth. Adult parties trade the drunken hooliganism of our youth for what can only be described as my own personal nightmare: A room full of 30-somethings discussing TV shows they watch and trying their best to remain as sober as possible.

And Santa sighed loudly and updated his LinkedIn profile

Dear Santa,

It’s December 1, and you know what that means! Yep. It’s time to get off your fat, lazy ass and start making me presents. I’ve been extra good this year, so you’re my bitch for the next month, Santa. Every time I snap my fingers, you should be done making me another present.

No, shut your mouth. Shut it! No talking! Talking slows down the production line. Sorry. I know you didn’t say anything, but I sensed you were about to dispute me, so I’m asking you nicely to please shut your mouth and continue making me awesome things for free.

Specifically name brand things. Your elves make everything themselves, so I’m not sure why you’d purposely have them make me a lower quality generic product. It takes just as much effort to create a 50” LG television as a 50” Daewoo, so let’s not do things just to be a dick, okay?

It’s Goober Friday

The goobers gathered in clumps outside their local Best Buy. Warming themselves with thick blankets and hot coffee, they shared tales of grandeur from years past. The lady who dispersed pepper spray in hopes of creating a diversion. The man who tried to high jump over the mob and crowd surf his way to savings. The old woman in the Rascal Scooter who tried to park herself at the front of the line ten minutes before the doors opened.

That bitch went down hard, and the rest of these scheming bastards failed just as badly. They were beaten back by a crowd of bloodthirsty cheapskates who would sooner trample their own kin than wait six months for that “doorbuster” TV to hit the same price in the discount bins.

Clear a path, you smelly whores! The time of the goober has come! Their fists are clenched and ready to deal damage to anyone in their way. Scratching, biting, spitting, pulling hair. Fighting the way a drunken Swede fights when cornered. Spouses can be replaced, children’s bones will heal eventually, and God himself would be wise to spend the next few minutes dumpin’ a grumper while his disciples take care of the important business.

I usually just steal things from Thanksgiving potlucks

One year I brought a loaf of white bread to the Thanksgiving potluck at work. Another year I brought Halloween candy, most of which I had gathered from work over the previous month. Most years I bring nothing, and when people ask which dish is mine, I point vaguely in the direction of a table and then pretend my phone is ringing.

“Who brought Charleston Chews to the potluck?” said Gladys from accounts, her voice a shrill and fiery disapproval that tore through every hallway in the office like molten lava. “It has bats and ghosts on it! Honestly, how hard is it to use a stove?”

Very hard, Gladys. There are at least six or seven knobs and buttons on my stove, and I have no idea what most of them do. I pressed a button once, and it turned on some weird fan that made the entire room smell like expired lunch meat. The microwave has never done that to me, Gladys. Neither have Charleston Chews. Lesson learned.

Work potlucks are fantastic events. There’s a real lack of caring from everyone involved, which makes the atmosphere very comfortable. It’s a Ghetto Thanksgiving, for lack of a better term. Bring in any trash off the street that appears to be food, and you can trade it for real food made by someone with actual cooking skills. You’d think the skilled people would catch on after a few years and stop working so hard on their dishes, but they’re very stubborn. They believe their good example will cause me to become honest over time. They are wrong.