Blood For Santa: Day 5

In a few short hours, children all over the world will be leaping from their warm beds, bounding down the stairs (or down the hall) to bask in the inviting glow of their family Christmas Trees, marveling at the multitudes of brilliantly wrapped gifts resting under the ornament-laden branches.

They will tear into these parcels with reckless abandon, lost in the greed and fury of the holiday blood fever. The parents will keep their distance, lest they lose a finger or two in the flurry of slashing claws and gnashing teeth as the little ones worship at the enticing altar of avarice.

The evergreen represents life, perserverance in the midst of winter's icy grip. If this unassuming flora could survive the harshest and most inhospitable months of the year, then they could also survive. Nay, they could flourish, spitting in the face of death itself.

People don't care about any of that anymore. Most people don't even know that story. Ignorance is bliss, especially in this civilized world of central heating and Snuggies. Winter has become nothing more than an inconvenience for most.

People bitch and moan when they have to scrape a layer of frost from their car windshields, unaware of how difficult this time of year truly used to be for their ancestors, who routinely froze to death in their thatched huts during the long and brutally cold nights of ancient winter, building meager fires to warm their numb hands as they prayed to innumerable deities for just one more day on this miserable world.

These people would see the unconquered evergreens as they trudged through the woods on a difficult hunt and witnessed a symbol of hope. These people would gather in their villages, carrying a freshly cut evergreen into their midst as they made merry during those long, cold nights. This is the origin of the Christmas Tree, and people could give less than a shit about any of that.

The people of this modern age have turned the Christmas Tree into a mockery of its former self, mass-marketed trimming for this over-commercialized season. But the trees haven't forgotten. Their lives are long, and they have learned patience in their many years. And when the time is right, they will have their revenge...



And now, because I have no other choice, let me re-introduce you to the greatest video gift of all: David Bowie's haunting duet with Bing Crosby, "The Little Drummer Boy/Peace On Earth"...



That's out of the way. Time to get down to business.

In December 23rd's post, I lamented the fact that I had not prepared any original holiday-related material for your enjoyment. That has changed. Yesterday, my cousin Ky dropped in to see what condition my condition was in, and we recorded a podcast. Actually, we recorded a two-and-a-half-hour conversation that I painstakingly whittled down to a sixteen minute and twenty-one second long podcast.over the past several hours.

Yes, this episode of Lies My Podcast Told Me is over twice the length of your average episode, suffering from some serious holiday bloat. It's been indulging in the pumpink pie, and is a little groggy, but there's still plenty to love.

Within this amazing holiday gift, we discuss our favorite Christmas memories, the perils of gift-giving etiquette, seasonal apathy, booze, perversion, mortality, and the only true Christmas classic motion picture, Showgirls. Because you can never have enough Showgirls discussion.

We also intercept a broadcast of a Mexican Christmas TV special from the future, which is a Christmas miracle. You're welcome:

Chapter 19: Blood For Santa



I am weary and must rest. This celebration has drained me, and I must enter the sleep of ages to marshal my strength.

Happy Holidays. Damn your eyes.

Merry Christmas!