I’m not mentally adjusted to 3rd shift. Caught myself in the kitchen this morning delivering an improv stand-up comedy routine to the contents of my freezer. Made sleazy lounge singer bedroom eyes, and sultrily said “This goes out to all my special ladies,” then whispered raunchy leg, thigh and breast comments to my frozen chickens. I was about to start singing when I snapped out of it. Sleep deprivation, I am your bitch.
I’m messing with my coworkers. Step 1: Decorated the cubicle with 10x the appropriate amount of Christmas decorations. Step 2: Last night I brought in a spread of Hanukkah cookies. Step 3: Kwanzaa Claus figurine. Step 4: Brought in a baklava tray and some poinsettias. Now I’m Greek Orthodox, baby!
I’m tired of people trying to make me sad for Christmas. I don’t want any more singing about starving children or dead lady’s shoes, and if I hear that fucking John Lennon song one more time I’m gonna dig that bastard up and shoot him again myself.
Elvis managed to record my favorite Christmas rock song, “Santa Claus Is Back In Town,” and break this rule all in the same album. Mama and her roses need to go the hell away. It’s not even a Christmas song. It’s just a reason to feel bad.