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The Reason Christmas Should be Outlawed (1 Viewer)

S

Scribble

The Reason Christmas Should be Outlawed


The ham, honey baked in all its glory, rides gracefully down the tract next to my clavical. I'm not sure if I would consider it a tract though. In my opinion, it's more of a tube. A tube that just happens to transport my food down into my stomach, in addition to a few other important processes. This is a trite fact, but the ham is tastey. I enjoy this ham. It comes once a year (twice if I'm lucky on Thanksgiving). The plate carries only two food items: ham and mac n cheese, of the homemade variety.

The food is a sort of comfort. It makes up for the travelling that has just occurred. When one transverses planes of time it often has an adverse affect on all portions of the human body. This ham and pasta is sort of what one would name as the redeeming factor. I am greatly amused by this travel, but it's scary, and at times I fear my life may never return to normalcy again. Then I breathe. It will be over tomorrow.

I peer upward. 'Family.' It's the 24th of December. What does that mean? That means a day of trans-planar-trekking-into-deminsions-visitied-once-a-year-on-the-same-date. It's Christmas Eve. These are aliens. Yet these aliens are in surroundings that are familar to me, and the few others around me that I hold dear to me in my 'normal' life. Therefore the only logical solution to this conundrum is that of a deminsional transversing. I've gotten quite a bit better at it over the years, but it still makes me quesy when I've forgotten the alt-dem's names. I've been getting the curly haired girl's name wrong for five trips straight. i don't think she is happy.

Just a handful of hours ago I was on my home planet during my own time. Now I'm in theirs. It's unfamilar. It's not right. Everyone pretends. So I do also. They worship me with gifts at one point. When I was younger during travel this was my favorite part, now it's simply amusing. This trip I am bestowed with rags and a gift card to auto-zone. Do you realize what is at this 'Auto-Zone?' I do. Car stuff. Let me enlighten you to my association with my vehicle. Her name is Astra. I like to draw on her. I like to draw in her. I get great satisfaction out of the fact I do not give any sort of woe out of her loss of muffler. I have never in my life sauntered into an Auto-Zone.

I smile. Thank them. Assure the usage. State the gratitude. Plot revenge.

There are a collective of individuals that I encounter only once or twice, then they leave the rift. It's odd. They are simply guests in this world also. They seem to understand what it going on. They have been drug here with me to partake in this ritual. There is but one difference: they have found a way out. They arrived. Said the needed hello, goodbye. Then took leave. I have yet to grasp this surreal control of trans-planar-travel. Or maybe I'm just not trying hard enough.

The curly hair girl is back again. She is staring into my eyes pleading for a response to her assertment of "This ice cream, it rocks."
-It does rock, but not as much as rocky road.
-Rocky Road sucks. Vanilla is so much more...like...awesome.
She is vain and immature. Vanilla is a sign of immaturity at that age. She has not adventured out to the far outer rim of ice cream flavors. Has not dipped into the bat of Spumoni, only to fall in love with an exotic flavor named after some cartoon character. She is in love with simplicity. I assume from this ice cream assesment she will become a fundamentalist preacher in the near future and corrupt the youth of the world. I am right. I know it. If not, she will at least run a boy scout troop.
-You are immature.
-I know.
-Good
-...
-...
-...So...
-I don't know you.
-Yes you do.
-No, no I don't. I don't even know your name Curly Hair Girl.
-I'm Susan. I'm your cousin.
-Curly Hair Girl, do you realize this is the longest we've ever conversed in this alt-world?
-You're weird. Do you people call you a weirdo? Mom says you're a weirdo. She says you like Star Wars.

I walk away.

There is nothing wrong with Star Wars (the original trilogy at least), and Curly Hair Girl, or Future-Cultist-Corruptor-Spumoni-Hater Girl, thinks I'm weird because of my liking to Star Wars. Well, more correctly because her mother said so. I wonder who her mom is? She is probably an older woman. An older woman that dislikes sentences that end in a preposition. I dislike those types of people. They frustrate me. They must like vanilla ice cream also.

The ham is good. Good. Can good comabt preposition hating vanilla lovers? For now it can. It will only be a few more hours. Then I will at home without Curly Hair Girl and her evil mother. I usually enjoy alt-worlds, but not this one. This one is too familar, yet so not familar. If they enjoyed another flavor of ice cream it would be different. Trust me.

I fear society suffers from this trans-planar-shifting. I'm not the sole soul to depart from their comfort of their natural deminsional zone. It's akin to a mascarade party. Christmas should be transformed to its rightful place in the world: a glorified costume party. It's close as it is. God, and his zombie son Jesus, have been dead for a few decades now. That's more than a bit apparent. So let's get with the new year's resolutions and declare Christmas the new Halloween. I'm sure Curly wont mind, except for the whole preacher vocation. She would then end up as the troop leader. Poor boys.


There was one year I was chosen to be 'Santa.' Now my first qualm of this assignment was the apparent reasoning that I was being compared to a fat old man who enjoyed red suade at all times during the year. My fashion sense is far more upstanding than this. Next I would not succeed on my mission. I don't know these people. They didn't hear me the first time spoke up in their direction; I don't know these alt-worlders! I have no clue who Shannon is! I don't sympathize with Bob and his hearing impaired son. I will deliver five year old Taylor the bra and panties from Victoria Secret that was supposed to go to Taira. I was never again asked to be Santa.


There needs to be a button. A button to return to home, like Dorothy's ruby slippers. Society should be equipped with ruby slippers. They are needed. If the mask falls off during the new-Halloween party next year I will need the slippers. Maybe I will learn. Maybe I'm ungrateful. Maybe I'm 'too young to understand.' Or, maybe I'm just the first to speak of the obvious: none of us know these people.
 
D

Dressed In Gray

It was an interesting story... reminded me of "cathcer and the rye"
If you really believe that Christmas should be outlawed i would suggest talking to a Therapist.
 

Raging_Hopeful

Senior Member
*laughs* I liked this piece a lot. I could see it clearly in my mind and the character was sarcastic... and yes, a little "catcher in the rye"ish. But with quirkier traits... like Star Wars. Gotta love it. Keep writing! :)
 
S

Scribble

thanks for the comments to the piece. I wasn't aiming for any sort of salinger-esque type, but I can see a bit of connection.
As for the therapist, I think I'll be fine on my own.
^_^
 

rboy27

Senior Member
Haha, this was great. I can totally identify with you on this piece; I am so far beyond the reaches of my family that it makes every holiday a chore. Having to dumb down my talk and, of course, no swearing or talking about any religion besides Christianity.

I loved the sarcastic tone, the fluid language, the annonymous storyteller. Keep up with this feel and you're bound for great things.
 

americanwriter

Senior Member
Leave Christmas alone. Outlaw family gatherings.

I know you could make an argument that peaceful congregations are a protected right, but let's face it, most family gatherings aren't peaceful and if most people stopped to think about their family members and their friends, they would find their friends, whom they choose, are complete opposites of their family members.

But, I'm rambling. Let's keep Christmas, but make all gatherings of more than two people optional. I opted out of all family get-togethers for a couple of years, opted back in this year. Can anyone wonder where I'll be come next Christmas? Lord willing, in a spa on a warm, sunny coast, preferably tropical.

Despite their quirks though, as writers we must admit, without family we wouldn't have any really good material. Your story is great. Happy Holidays.
 
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