The KSK Guide To Making The Yuletide Even Gayer

It's The Girl's first Chirstmas of her young life, so I am doubly fucking excited for the holiday this year. As a matter of fact, it got me thinking about what's important to me this time of year. Family? No. God? Uh, no. The spirit of giving? God, fuck no. No, I'm concerned mainly with the areas of Christmas music, present-giving, eating, boozing, and watching of TV. You know, the important stuff.

As such, I follow these rules every year. Now, maybe you deviate from these in some ways. It's your right. This is America. But in my house, we follow these rules, or else I shit in Tupperware and gift wrap it to you. Don't think I won't.

Christmas presents are to be opened on Christmas fucking morning: Want to open your gifts the night before? I call bullshit on you. Opening your gifts on Christmas Eve is for the weak. You can't wait 12 hours? Pussy. Real motherfuckers show some willpower and wait the night out. Mrs. Drew's family opens gifts on Christmas Eve. I hate it. What do you get the next morning when you wake up? Jack shit. Maybe some clementines with breakfast. Where's the thrill of anticipation? I want to be surprised when I open up that Simpsons DVD I saw you buy me at the mall, god dammit.

I want a smoked turkey. I will eat any smoked food. Seriously. You could smoke a pig's dick and I'd eat it. I am a smoked food whore. Everything tastes better smoked. Especially turkey. Smoked turkey rules. It's like regular turkey. Only smoked. That is fucking flavor country, people. Just seeing one makes me wanna stick my head in the cavity Mr. Bean-style and lick the giblets.

Any singing of "The First Noel" will include a reference to the old Mickey's Knights of Columbus SNL skit Nooooooooo-el noel noel noel... uh... noel noel noel noel.

No bullshit Christmas songs. Every year, hundreds of asshole songwriters try and write new Christmas songs to go in the canon with the rest of the classics. All of these songs are shit. If the DJ ever says the next song coming up is called, "Christmas Magic", or "The Wonder of Christmas", or "Santa's Glory Hole", click. That is not Christmas music. That is Christmas ass.

No "Silver Bells". I fucking hate this song. Let's move on.

Or "Merry Happy Christmas" by John Lennon. I fucking hate this song, too. Hey Lennon, I didn't ask for liberal guilt for Christmas. Eat me. And that McCartney song also licks balls.

That reminds me. About three years ago, we were all at my folks house for Christmas. Christmas morning, my dad decides to wake everyone in the house up at 7AM by blasting that McCartney song on his stereo system through the ENTIRE FUCKING HOUSE. He thought it would get everyone in the spirit. Which was true, except it was the spirit of patricide.

Someone else can string the fucking lights. I'm not doing it. I have a bad back.

No singing the extra verses to carols. My family goes to church once a year on Christmas Eve. And if you don't think the reverend gives us that, "I know you assholes don't buy any of this shit and are only here to sing the songs and you will burn in the fiery embers of Hell" look, you are quite mistaken. That look alone doubles my dad's annual offering. My mom says she likes church, but I think it's really so she doesn't have to cook for an hour that day. I'm onto you, Mom.

Anyway, most of my time at Christmas service involves staring at the program, determining where in the program we are, and figuring out how much of the program is left. Once you get past the homily, you are in the home stretch. I do a little fist pump after it's over. But by far the most brutal part of that service is when they make you sing the 27 extra verses of "Silent Night" and every other song. Everyone only knows one verse: the first verse. The first verse is really all you need. You get it. You don't need to do stanzas 2, 3, 5, 7, 56, and 987. It just isn't necessary.

I also dislike it when the hymn writer tries to jam two syllables into one note. Hey, Mr. Hymn Writer Guy, you don't think I notice when you're trying to cram "given" into one note on that third verse of "O Little Town of Bethlehem?" I notice, you lazy tit.

Acceptable Christmas song CD's: Sinatra, Elvis, Nat King Cole, Phil Spector, The Nutcracker, Ella Fitzgerald, Bing Crosby. If you give me a Mannheim Steamroller CD, it will end up in your digestive tract.

There's only one Scrooge: Alistair motherfuckin' Sim.: I don't even like the Albert Finney version, even if Finney was a fucking badass in Miller's Crossing ("Johnny, you're as big as I let you be and no bigger and don't forget it EVER."). When I was a kid, the Sim one was always "hosted" by some asshole standing in front of a fireplace. I want that job. That Scrooge: such a miser!

No leaving the house on Christmas Day. It's the one day of the year when the Jews have the movie theaters and ethnic restaurants to themselves. Leave them alone and let them enjoy Helen Mirren in "The Queen". They hear she's excellent.

Adeste Fideles>O Come All Ye Faithful: Get your Latin on. Semper fi, asswipe.

You must giggle any time the lyric "Make the yuletide gay" pops up: Does it ever get old? Fuck and no.

Any NFL game I manage to watch will be a 44-14 blowout: Happens every year. I find the time to watch one game, and it's 28-0 in the first five minutes. And I have no fantasy players involved. Fuck.

Those are the rules. They are ironclad. Unless Mrs. Drew tells me different. Then I just bitch about it online.