SCROOGE

 I don't take any satisfaction starting the holiday as Scrooge, but didn't we celebrate Christmas eleven months ago? Didn't I just take the lights down from the front of the house in June and now I have to put them up again. I'm not climbing any ladder. You read every week about somebody who has fallen from a ladder, hit his head and died a few days later after complaining about terrible headaches. Why don't more women climb ladders?

Too much has changed from the time I was a child and when I had my own children. How does remembering happiness compensate for all the sadness that surrounds us? We have crossed the 270,000 death mark as the Coronavirus pandemic sweeps across the country unabatedly. And there ain't no Saint Nick--Saint Dick might be more appropriate--occupying our highest office who gives rather than takes. 

These are not good times. With all the uncertainty, paranoia rules our every move. I don't fear fear. I fear reality. From Washington D.C. to Brownsville and Austin in between we have no leadership. We have all these rabid Republicans whose religious fervor in their adulation of their cult hero has turned them into fanatics. 

We keep hearing about the Far-Left, but I don't have one acquaintance who would identify himself as Far-Left, but the Far-Right are more prevalent than cockroaches. In fact, I've never known so many Mexican-Americans in one place who are proud to call themselves cucarachas.

Since adulthood I have endured many Christmases alone as I have gone from marriage to marriage. I will probably spend this Christmas alone. There are no children in my life with imaginations that know nothing but wonder who would give me that opportunity to revel in their innocence. I'll buy a few gift cards to meet my responsibilities, but it will be another day for me as most my days are as I live the Golden Years with little gold in my bank account and mounting medical bills as an old, used car requires constant repairs.

I'm not complaining. I'm not asking for pity. For the most part, I am indifferent. It's like sex as you age: You're just not in the mood; the excitement is gone. What's a boner? What's a wet cunt? I'd rather listen to Jobim and sip on wine. I want the memories to go away. I don't want to dwell on the dead. I am the product of a perfect past. Even the bad times only made the good times better in those halcyon times. 

The imperfect present has ruled my life for many years now. There is a burdensome dread that weighs heavy on me. I've grown disgusted with the imperfect me, but born reckless and restless, I can't escape who I am even though on the exterior I give the impression of a placid existence. 

But I do have one Christmas wish: Get that fucking madman Trump out of The White House! And rather than filling his stocking with coal, bury the cocksucker in coal. Santa Claus should have never rewarded this naughty boy who grew into an even naughtier man. He became so arrogant that he could kill a person on Madison Avenue in broad daylight and grab women by the pussies if the urge stirred him and brag that nobody would dare arrest or prosecute him.

And Christians would trust their daughters with this accused rapist??? I so sick of hypocritical Christians who would flock to the polls in support of Lucifer if he promised to outlaw abortion. Jesus would be the first to proclaim that these lemmings couldn't possibly be his followers if they were  pledging their allegiance to the debauched Trump.

And while people by the hundreds if not thousands every week are dying, he continues with his god-awful lying. More than 80 million of our fellow citizens voted against this disgraceful excuse of a human being for president because The White House deserves a more honorable resident.