The holiday noose.

This morning I woke up to sausage and eggs and biscuits and some fancy pumpkin-spice coffee, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, desperately wrong. A quick visit to the bathroom confirmed that it wasn't that, at least. (All that gravy? It's a miracle.) So, other than the fact that I am in Kansas (ahhhhhhh!) , I couldn't think of any reason that I should be in a mood. Then my father, Prince of Sadism, put on some music downstairs in the basement for me while I showered and dressed. Holiday music. Festive, old-time holiday music. Festive, old-time holiday music sung by various famous people and singers.

Kill, kill, kill.

This year I am going to try to get in the spirit. To that end, I will no longer:

Give the shiv to the Salvation Army bell-ringers. Usually I wait until they go back to their cars after the store closes and then I adminster the "justice", but too many times I found out that they were just sweet old retired people who actually wanted to make a difference for someone over the holidays. It's really really hard to stomp someone with a MedicAlert bracelet; those mothertouchers get there in like five minutes.

Trip small children in the mall. Oh, don't judge me; you all will burn in hell if you deny that you've always dreamt of doing the same thing. I just have no conscience, so I do what I wan'. There they all are: running about, shrieking, producing very large amounts of mucus, and how many of them run into your crotch at ten thousand miles an hour holding a shiny new action figure? A lot. I just trip them before they get to me and then all is well. That satisfying splat as they hit the linoleum...mmm, divine. Most get up and continue on with their evil; some begin to quietly weep. But I tell you what: they may be evil, but they aren't dumb. They've all heard told of the bearded guy who holds wee ones under the coin-fountain and none of them are willing to become his next victim. I have been officially banned from returning to no less than thirteen malls.

Use the Israel-issue flame-thrower on carolers. Too many lawsuits; that, and scorched flesh-smell never washes out of curtains.

Put grain alcohol in the eggnog. Nothing says "holiday fun" like being so drunk that you vomit down the front of your pajama bottoms. Sorry, Mom. Hope your liver grows back.

Shoot religious lawn statuary. All it takes is a shotgun and a fifth of Jim Beam and you are ready to take the heads off all of the obnoxious plaster/plastic/inflatable lawn nativities. Of course, that's a good way to punch a one-way ticket to Hell, but have YOU ever tried to blow the head off Balthazar the Wise Man from two hundred yards? It's good times. I'll miss that satisfying "pop".

So, maybe this year will be better than the last few. I've already bought my tickets to the mother-ship, I mean, motherland, and the end of the semester is in my grasp. Of course, between now and then, I have to go back to the mall. So, just in case I am too drunk to remember these promises, for the love of weeping Jesus on the true cross, bring your wee-ones to daycare. I may not be able to help myself.

Have a great one, Wichita.

Dom