See You Next Year
Those of you hoping Christmas would be cancelled this year were once again disappointed: despite opposition to the holiday from both secular groups opposed to the fundamental religious nature of the holiday and religious groups angry about the fundamental pagan nature of the holiday (this is my personal favorite example), and the prophesied end of the world, Christmas came just the same.
Of course it did. Christmas is a cultural juggernaut ten-thousand years old. It's survived the fall of empires and religions. When early Christian leaders tried to destroy it, it ate their savior and took his name. It's the granddaddy of all holidays, the mother of all festivals, and the drunken, lecherous uncle of all celebrations. As long as the seasons change, Christmas isn't going anywhere.
Oh, and we're still here, too.
That's right: not VeggieTales nor Barney nor Adam Sandler could break our commitment to the true meaning of Christmas, whatever the hell that is. Mainlining Christmas has stared into the red and green abyss a third time without blinking. And you know something? Bring it on.
That's right; you heard me. BRING IT ON. We've done one Barney special, we can do them all. There's a made-for-TV Home Alone 4 we never knew existed? We'll watch that shit. Snow 2: Brainfreeze? Keep the DVD player warm: we'll sit through as many crappy sequels as ABC Family can produce.
You know why? Because we haven't got any goddamn choice. Christmas cheer is addictive: you pump enough of that shit in your veins, and it takes over. When the air gets cold next November, when a flock of turkeys gets trampled underfoot on Black Friday's Eve, we'll hear the call of Christmas.
And you can be goddamn sure we'll answer. Because we're part of the holidays now.
We're a tradition.
Of course it did. Christmas is a cultural juggernaut ten-thousand years old. It's survived the fall of empires and religions. When early Christian leaders tried to destroy it, it ate their savior and took his name. It's the granddaddy of all holidays, the mother of all festivals, and the drunken, lecherous uncle of all celebrations. As long as the seasons change, Christmas isn't going anywhere.
Oh, and we're still here, too.
That's right: not VeggieTales nor Barney nor Adam Sandler could break our commitment to the true meaning of Christmas, whatever the hell that is. Mainlining Christmas has stared into the red and green abyss a third time without blinking. And you know something? Bring it on.
That's right; you heard me. BRING IT ON. We've done one Barney special, we can do them all. There's a made-for-TV Home Alone 4 we never knew existed? We'll watch that shit. Snow 2: Brainfreeze? Keep the DVD player warm: we'll sit through as many crappy sequels as ABC Family can produce.
You know why? Because we haven't got any goddamn choice. Christmas cheer is addictive: you pump enough of that shit in your veins, and it takes over. When the air gets cold next November, when a flock of turkeys gets trampled underfoot on Black Friday's Eve, we'll hear the call of Christmas.
And you can be goddamn sure we'll answer. Because we're part of the holidays now.
We're a tradition.
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