THE HORROR DAYS
MY PERSONAL “WAR” ON X-MAS
by
Darrel D. Miller
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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THIS POSSIBLY HUMOROUS EDITION PUBLISHED BY:
Darrel D. Miller on Smashwords
The Horror Days
My Personal War on X-mas
Copyright © 2010 by Darrel D. Miller
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THE HORROR DAYS
MY PERSONAL “WAR” ON X-MAS
(Editor’s Note (I don't have an editor): Most of the following recitation is nothing by hyperbolic fiction, the writer barely remembers the year his father pummeled him for discovering that he (his father, not the writer, I would know if I was Santa Claus, right?) was Santa Claus, I wonder why?)
For most people the holidays probably conjure up ideas of friends, family and fun. They must have neither friends, family, or fun. As I see it, holidays are just a season to feel worse about yourself, because you spend it with people who remind you of how bad you really are, or who are a picture of your future.
None of that is true for me however, I have a much different reason to be, ambivalent (That's too strong of a word, its more like careless) about the holiday season. (Yes I am warring on Xmas, in that I call it the holidays, and I spell it X-mas, I just figured if it is called the Christmas Season, I ought to bag me a Fat Red guy and a baby in a manger, I have tags for both. The limit is one per person. If you don't use them, you lose them.)
And actually I didn’t even realize I was neutral (again too strong of a word more like, careless) in regards to holiday cheer until I sat down and talked with my friend (therapist) about it.
Just a few weeks ago, I was sitting with a friend having a nice conversation over coffee (he was having coffee, I was having something stronger: tea; three bags), when the topic turned to X-mas (the x is a sideways cross and the wrong holiday!) We both are Christian and White, its the only holiday season we have.
Which was appropriate, because a few weeks ago, Christmas was closing in on us (like a mugger (except muggers take less), which it is, have you seen my wallet? Christmas got it all.). I told him that I did not really care for Christmas, and as any good therapist does (he’s not a therapist), he asked me “why”. I told him that I did not really know why, it just was not a big deal for me.
Then I related a story from my childhood.
As many children do (I haven't met any other children that do), my brothers and I wanted to catch Santa Claus and make him spit out toys all year long (we never wanted much). Okay we just wanted a glimpse of Fat Red. So every year, we would try to stay awake long enough to hear Santa filling our stockings with goodies. (I guess you make a lot of nose when you stuffing socks with things).
Every year, we would fall asleep before we heard Santa (our room was downstairs and you could hear people walking upstairs).
We would wake up, curse our sleepiness, and then go enjoy our toys and candies, swearing that next year, “we’ll get you Fat Red!”
Well one year, we all managed to stay awake long enough to catch Santa in the act. We heard footsteps (we slept downstairs, didn’t we talk about this?), and we eased out of bed. My older brother, Mike, took point, and we crept up the stairs to the kitchen. (which was our first mistake, you can't creep anywhere in our house, it creeks.)
Here we could look around the doorway, straight into the front room where our stockings were hung (not by the chimney, we didn’t have a chimney, how did he get through the heating ducts? I would find out in a few minutes.)
As we peered around the kitchen doorway, we saw someone stuffing our stockings with a variety of goodies. Then David, my youngest brother (and weakest link (not really, it is just convenient to blame him) squeeked out:
“it’s Dad.”
My father turned around, and the glint in his eyes from the Christmas Tree lights was almost feral. He dropped the stockings, yelled something at us (probably Christmas cheer, but I remember cursing: “Yer about to have a merry motherf***ing X-mas”; even dad abbreviated Christmas (especially when he spoke)) we turned and bolted downstairs (like that was going to save us, he knew where we lived, plus we had no door on our room; whose stupid idea was that? My parent's).
He sped after us, the dreaded belt in hand. With belt lashing he screamed “Now Dale, Now Darrel, Now David and Michael.”
And you know what we got for Christmas that year? Our asses handed to us.
Merry MotherF***ing X-mas.
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NOTE TO THE READER:
This essay, as well as others (soonish)
available on Smashwords.com
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/DarrelMiller