Not too long ago, the irrepressible Moe Lane said in these (virtual) pages, “So, if you show up at this site after experiencing a holiday horror story (waving hand grandly) feel free to tell it here.”
It was a good idea. It was a great idea. It was the kind of idea that might lead to peace in the Middle East, goodwill towards men, and the Indianapolis Colts beating the Denver Broncos.
There was one problem, however. We got no comments. None. No one wanted to share their holiday horror stories with us. (And the Broncos beat the Colts, gosh-darnit.)
It took me all night and a fifth of Beefeater gin, but I think I’ve finally figured out why. Moe, gentle soul that he is, admonished our readership “to limit the profanity.” Sorry, that simply will not do. One cannot tell a holiday horror story and “limit the profanity.” Many holiday horror stories consist of nothing but profanity.
So, I’m unilaterally relaxing the posting rules for this thread only.* Consider this your gratuitous profanity holiday open thread. Since I’m an anal-retentive lawyer jerk, however, I’ll ask that you obey the following rules:
(1) Do not limit yourself to past events. Is your mother trying to convert your Jewish boyfriend to Catholicism at this very moment? Post on it. Did your Aunt just refer to your goyish girlfriend as “that shiksa”? We want to know. Has Uncle Bob appeared at another Christmas morning breakfast in his boxer shorts with the fly is wide open? Every detail, friends.
(2) Do not use real names or characteristics that will easily identify your subject. Why? Google. You don’t want your remarks to come back and haunt you (or us) as a result of some ill-advised, post-holiday egoGoogling. Now is also not the time to discover that extra-randy poster “DrEXXXtasy” is your father or that super-bitch “Lorax84” is great aunt Thelma. So a little self-restraint is needed. Remember: we cannot (and will not) monitor the comments section in real-time.
(3) Use of the “curse” words “biotch,” “effing,” and “shite” is forbidden. Really, people: curse like adults.
(4) No ad hom against other posters. We’re all in this together, folks. (This rule does not apply to ad homs against unrepresented friends, family members, and loved ones, of course.)
And away we go . . . . .
*If Moe or Katherine has serious objections to this, please e-mail me (use the work e-mail, if possible).
Here’s mine:
My wife’s parents and my parents live a 20 minute drive from one another. This makes for interesting, multiple-meal holidays, for proximity leads all involved to believe that my wife and I are capable of seeing everyone, everytime. We end up scurrying from one set of parents to the next in an attempt to preserve family unity and to save feelings from hurt.
We lucked out with respect to Christmas, however. Her family’s tradition is to eat a big meal and exchange presents on Christmas eve. My family’s tradition is to eat a big Christmas day meal. Two meals on two separate days. Ideal.
Before we go further, however, a word about my wife’s family’s Christmas eve meal: It’s just about the best holiday meal I’ve ever experienced. It kicks the mothafuckin’ pants off my family’s Christmas day meal. My wife’s father essentially retired to a farm, where he raises cattle. Delicious cattle. Through a magical process only dimly understood by man, these cattle become Beef Wellington. And, though Beef Wellington is surely passe in some quarters, let me say that those quarters have not tasted this Beef Wellington.*
Well, not this year. This year, my wife’s ur-Yuppie brother and his smuggly-wuggly wife are trekking down in their mid-sized, modestly-luxurious SUV only for Christmas day, making Christmas day dinner the event for my wife’s family.
Why are they casting well-established tradition aside? Who fucking knows? From past experience with these folks, however, I can say that it is almost certainly not a good reason, like family contra-commitments of their own. No, it’s almost certainly some bit of selfish somesuch.
Well, there is no way in Hell that I’m missing the fucking Beef Wellington. So now my family’s pissed ’cause we’re missing “their” meal. Fuck!
(OK, fine, that’s not a very good story. But now it’s your turn — do better!)
von
*My wife and I have a song about the Beef Wellington, caused by one year’s severe undercookery of the dish: “Bloody bloody Beef Wellington/Nobody likes it well done/It’s bloody, bloody Beef Wellington.” [Repeat until you’re told to shut up.] We may have to add a line about mad cow disease, given recent events.
The reason I didn’t post a story about the holiday is that my wife’s parents, their dogs, and their bipolar son aren’t showing up until this afternoon.
But I’m sure it will be fucking nightmare.
GAH! Motherfucking shit-eating buffalo’s nut-sack-loving, whore of an asshole bitch-monkey cunt, and did I mention shit-eating? Merry Christmas.
Update on the situation: God fucking dammit.
Update on the situation: God fucking dammit.
That’s the holiday spirit I’m talking about!
Mine hasn’t happened yet, but I’m planning on waking up at around 6:00 AM Christmas morning, driving up to the airport, and flying over the course of about 20+ hours to Osaka, Japan, where I will attempt to dredge up my reserves of Japanese from a bottomless pit of jet lag and sleep deprivation in order to communicate with a taxi driver so that he may take me to my hotel in Kyoto (ideally without getting lost, as happened the last time I took a shuttle from a Japanese airport) where I can finally crash into sleep… and no doubt wake up promptly at 6:00 AM the next morning with my body thinking it must be six in the evening. Tom Ridge has made this whole experience extra happy by declaring a new alert level, which probably means I can expect some sort of strip search and they’ll probably make me open my presents early going through security too. Stick in a presumed delay on the tarmac or two, maybe some inclimate weather, and the fact that my layover destination is Detroit, and the next two days’ve definitely got happy holidays written all over them. Kusou!
“shite”
Um, don’t know many folks from Britain, or much about the land, do you? This is not a euphemism, you fucking piece of shite.
I mean that in a good way, of course. But it’s not dissimilar to the difference between “humor” and “humour,” you asshole.
Except that “shite” is nastier. (And, yes, Moe, words have meaning.)
well, let’s see. Nothing horrific, exactly, but if my dearly loved British stepfather serves another fucking roast piece of fatty meat for another dinner I may fucking explode.
We used to always have Christmas eve at my grandmother’s house & decorate her tree with:
1. mangy tinsel garlands
2. 150 degree lights in large glass globes with styrofoam sprinkles on them.
3. red and blue plastic disco balls.
4. the combined arts and crafts ability of 14 grandchildren–so, lots of misguided pom pom, styrofoam balls, and pipe cleaner ornaments.
5. truly creepy little elf ornaments
Also, the tree could not cost more than $25 so it was usually More than Slightly Irregular.
The end result was sort of transcedently ugly. But now that we have a reasonably pretty tree my mom tends to sigh and complain about gentrification.
I should be cursing more, but my grandma’s sitting right here and I don’t feel right about it.
I must have an abnormal familiy or something, so christmas isn’t really a nightmare. OTOH christmas shopping. I don’t think anything more needs to be said.
Rather than use your bandwidth, I’ll just link-whore. 🙂
Avoid cross-family holiday event scheduling problems by intermarrying. All the cool kids are doing it.
Um, you bunch of fucking wankers. (Is that enough swearing to be allowed to post here?)
Um, don’t know many folks from Britain, or much about the land, do you? This is not a euphemism, you fucking piece of shite.
Actually, I lived in Colchester for seven months in the late 80s, and have been back to the UK several times since then. But I apologize if you think my instruction was fucking insensitive to your fucking culture, ya fucking fuckwad.
Happy fucking holidays, Mr. Farber!
(BTW, this post was from von, not Moe.)
This whole thread is just so full of sentiment…so heartfelt…it must be a Festivus miracle!
I gave my mother and my son each a $100 gift certificate. My son gave me and my mother each a $25 gift certificate. My mother gave me and my son each a $100 gift certificate. Wouldn’t it have been a fuckin’ whole lot easier if my mother and I had each just given my son $75 and we called it a day? Isn’t there a Santa Claus clearing house somewhere where we can just transfer the funds and not have to see each other? What is this Christmas shit about anyway? And then there was the debate about politics, you know, that cut to the bone I’m always right bullshit, trying to reach unanimity on which is a better diet, Atkins or South Beach. Just kidding.
Sorry, forgot the ;), Mr. Farber. Best wishes.
von
So far, so good: easy trip, got some 12 year old Glenlivet scotch for Christmas, not too bad.
But I have to deal with the God-damned Garden State Parkway tomorrow. Oh fucking boy…
Moe
PS Great idea, von. 🙂
I was staying in a Young Men’s Christian Association room of some sort in Paris, Christmas 1978, when my two brothers filtered in to see me. They had been in a language school in Switzerland and so thought they would avail themselves of the high life of gay Paree.
I have to say I could have arranged things better. I was living on a showstring so there would be no X-mas feast. Paris kind of slows down on X-mas and many of the relatively inexpensive diversions are closed. I ended up taking them over to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Who doesn’t want to see the monuments of Marcel Proust, Gertrude Stein, and graffiti throughout announceing the presence of Jim Morrison?
Well, my brothers weren’t too happy with it. Nor did they particularly want to go to any of Paris’ many inexpensive movie houses. And it was cold and wet. They concluded it might have been better not to visit me at all.
Christmas wasn’t Merry that year, but it got worse the next day. The good brothers in charge of the YMCA threw me out – for having my brothers stay over for the holiday.