Call me the Grinch. Call me Ebenezer Scrooge. Call me Tiny Tim, dying on the floor from rickets and tuberculosis. Yes, I looked it up.
Christmas lost its fun, its magic. Christmas became a survival rather than a celebration. Hand me the 2016 Christmas ornament and let’s get this over with.
I have news for you. The ones close to me know this little secret. It’s minor, really. You can forget I ever mentioned it. I am a man. Not a man with a penis but a man with a cold.
I have man-cold syndrome.
I’ve heard the jokes. A bunch of girlfriends get together to complain about their husbands. The topic falls on a man getting sick and BOOM – the insults fly and I avoid all eye contact. He’s so whiny, lazy, and pathetic when he’s sick. He’s a complete momma’s boy and he doesn’t even have a fever. He wants us to finish the will, he thinks he’s that bad. Crying. Weak. Oh, and that in sickness and in health bullshit. Men are the weaker sex – truly. A cold – he has THE COMMON COLD.
Scott is the woman and I am the man. I am your fetal-position, violently ill husband without a fever. I have a cold. I have a bad cold. I have a really, really bad cold and I’m dying. My death by cold with no fever has been dragging on for two weeks. Scott has put up with my moaning bullshit for 14 days. Not that kind of moaning.
The time spent in my deathbed got me thinking of a list. It’s not a naughty list or a nice list. In fact, the next Santa I see is getting a kick in the giant red nut sack.
I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.
I have nothing against Santa. And really, the jolly ‘ole elf would probably be quick to stuff his black boot up the ass of some crazy woman dying of rickets and tuberculosis charging at him.
I made a list. It’s more of a Clark Griswold meltdown sort of list.
What I want for Christmas:
I want Scott to teach me how to use his shotgun. My first thought was to ask Amazon to screw off. But Amazon allows me to not talk to people. One reason I don’t like to shop is because I don’t like people. It’s not Amazon’s fault. I live in Suburbia, Kansas – home of criminals that follow UPS, FedEX and the USPS trucks to steal packages from front doors. I want to use a shotgun on them. I want to be wheeled out to our front porch, sit, and wait while I spit giant chunks of green phlegm on the ground. Anyone running away with one of my neighbors’ packages gets a bullet to the leg or arm or big toe. I want saline power-sprayed into every crevice of my body. Water is flowing out of my eyes, my nose, and my mouth. I probably peed the bed last night and I’m sitting in my own urine. Everything is soaked and I’m dying in my own fluids. I want all homework to come with a parent-guide. The hell if I know common core. The hell if I even remember “my way” of math. I tried to learn math as a kid. At best, I peaked as a B-student. Now, I’m just peaking, falling, and it’s giving me a headache because I’m 35 now. World peace. Let’s just throw it out there and see what happens. I want to go back in time and remove “Elf on the Shelf” on Emma’s Christmas list. It’s the same thing every night – climb into bed, inhale the Vick’s Vapor Rub, close my eyes and DAMNIT YOU POINTLESS ASS ELF. When Emma and Kate come home from college, Buddy the Elf will come back from the sorority house every night, drunk off his ass, and spooning Barbie. The Elf on the Shelf is really more of a toy for future-college-mom-me. I want Scott to stop rolling his eyes at me after I tell him my specific request for LUDEN’s wild cherry cough drops. No, I’m not a child. Menthol cough drops don’t work and they make me smell like sickness. To the font maker of the Target’s Archer Farms coffee beans – SCREW YOU, KIND SIR. I can feel caffeine in my soul. I tried to drink a fresh cup of coffee to soothe my sore throat and you know what I felt? I felt hot crap water. I felt decaf. Next time you’re at your computer designing coffee bean packaging, try displaying DECAF in extra large letters with a surgeon general warning symbol on the front. I want my kids and Scott (once he brings me Luden’s cough drops) to be happy for the rest of their lives. If this is what death feels like, just let me waste away with the Ghost of Christmas Past. He probably wears black boots with a giant red sack.
I am a man with a cold and no fever. Merry Christmas. Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where’s the Tylenol.