Blank Christmas cards

Blank Christmas cards are like supermodels: beautiful but empty.

This post may mark me as an Ebenezer and ensure that my mailbox remains empty come next December (providing that the world doesn't end on 12/21/12). 

This saddens me, as I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE getting mail. Opening my mailbox is one of life's simple pleasures. It's usually bills and weekly circulars, but the possibility of spotting a handwritten envelope or a familiar return address keeps the hope alive. 

It stokes my holiday fire. 

Receiving a postmarked holiday card can be a magical experience filled with sentiment. What's not so hot is opening the envelope and finding a lush gilded or letterpressed card with no personal message, just a scrawled signature. The letdown is acute. Instead of feeling connected and valued, I feel managed, a task you checked off your list three days ago.

While I appreciate making the cut, your blank card sends another message: "I care enough to send the very least." It drives home the point that in the Venn diagram of your social circle, I'm sitting in a circle on the fringe of your life.

The card becomes about you, instead of a gift to me. I get to admire your exquisite taste in artwork or your graphic design skills or how photogenic your children are (and yes, they really are adorable and growing so fast!). I'm happy to coo and ooh and ah, but I'd like to ask that you include a personal sentence or two that pertains to our relationship. Mention that it was good to see me last July or that you are glad we've been able to spend more time together or that you're looking forward to eating more pulled pork out of my Crock Pot in the new year (not a euphemism).

I gave up sending Christmas cards years ago because I wasn't able to sustain writing out 80 cards (more on that here). It began to feel like a chore, which wasn't what I was going for. While I'm not sending out a mass mailing, know that I love you, think your kids are really quite cute no matter what anyone says, and that I hope we find time in 2013 to eat a lot of braised meat together. And oh yeah, if you ever get a card from me in the mail, it will include a healthy sampling of my horrible handwriting.

Thanksgiving control freaks

Folks love Thanksgiving for a buttload of reasons: family, football, food. I love Thanksgiving because I like to eat myself sick. But as I get older, I realize that for many, it's not about food, it's about control, and not in an awesome Janet Jackson way. Let me explain.
I traveled with my pal to her parents' home for Thanksgiving a few years back. Cousins, siblings, parents, and friends gathered around a perfectly appointed table for a perfectly planned-out meal. This was the kind of house that had enough matching chairs and china for a party of 12.

It was a little schmancy for me but I wasn't going to complain because, hey, stuffing! And I was too busy trying to figure out which fork to use for the mâche with satsuma and crystallized pansies. I helped serve the turkey, which had been carved offsite in the kitchen, and was gently admonished to serve from each person's left.

Well, at least I hadn't spilled anything…yet.

All this was fine, as my discomfort was about to be alleviated by dessert. One of the cousins brought a scrumptious apple pie and I couldn't wait to tuck into it, perhaps with a cup of coffee. 

Then time stopped.

The lovely, albeit tightly-wound, hostess appeared in the doorway holding a Le Creuset casserole dish. Poached. Pears. In. Port.

It was at this moment that I climbed back down the social ladder and stepped onto the firm ground of the lower middle class. I may not have money, but I do have taste. Thanksgiving dessert should involve pie, cake, crisp, cobbler, cookies, mousse, brûlée, ice cream, or some combination thereof. It should never ever consist solely of baked fruit in fortified wine. There were children at the table, for the love of Myles Standish.

Where was the pie, you ask?

Good question. I found it later, squirreled away on top of the fridge. My only saving grace is that it tasted amazing at 11pm with a cold glass of milk under the cover of darkness. This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful that while I veer into the land of the obsessive-compulsive, I'm generous enough to allow other people to bring things to the table, be it a talent, an idea, or a pie. If someone asks if they can bring something to dinner, say yes. While Thanksgiving often means cock-blocking the kitchen for many hosts and hostesses, it should be about abundance and generosity. Sure, that shot-in-the-ass green bean casserole might not pair well with your sav blanc, but someone made it out of tradition and/or love so pass the dish to your neighbor and reach for your ramekin of emmentaler gratin instead.

For the record, this year I'm making salted caramel pie and a fruit crisp. In recent years, I've made this sweet potato cheesecake from Kingfish Cafe, which is always a big hit. 

(photo: taylor.pt) 

Unrealistic holiday gift guides

My last name is Worick, not Warbucks.

With that in mind, I'm exasperated each holiday season when the gift guides start appearing in magazines, catalogs and websites. I love the concept of a guide of the season's best picks for everyone on your list (I've even written a few myself). Thing is, my list doesn't include Kate Middleton or Oprah. Throughout the recession, I've expected to see dialed-down gift ideas, presents you can buy on the cheap or even make. Instead, we get suggestions like this, featured in the November issue of Lucky: "Brit designer Charlotte Olympia's cheeky little cat flats strike the perfect balance between playful and posh."

These shoes retail for $895.

Call me catty, but who is buying these shoes, for themselves or as gifts? When a gift guide recommends keeping bottles of Dom or a case of $60 Diptyque candles on hand to give to a hostess or letter carrier, I wonder who gifted the editor with a box of delusion?

Then there's the Neiman Marcus Christmas Book. For a cool $250,000, you can buy a dinner party for ten prepared by Chefs Daniel Boulud, Thomas Keller, Jerome Bocuse, and Richard Rosendale. What's a quarter of a mill for an unforgettable evening and a Christmas gift a loved one is sure to appreciate? I mean, who needs to retire, really? Tap that 401K and get your Bocuse d'Or on.

When I read these far-fetched gift guides, I'm constantly reminded of my anemic bank account and what a loser I clearly am (always an awesome attitude with which to enter suicide season, fa la la). I may be delusional myself, but I don't think most families are rocking a five- or six-figure budget for their Christmas list.

Until there are more articles like Real Simple's "50 Gifts Under $50," I'm going to scare up a French Laundry Cookbook or make salted caramels for the lucky ones on my list. Let's hope they appreciate the sentiment, if not the cents, behind the gift.

(photo: Neiman Marcus Christmas Book)

Sexy Halloween costumes

Sexy is going down today, and not in a good way. 

When did every woman's Halloween costume get preceded by the adjective "sexy?" The Wicked Witch of the West's hemline has traveled well north of her green knees, and Halloween parties are now littered with sexy kittens, sexy devils, sexy nurses, and any profession or animal that can be tramped up. I've even seen sexy Bert & Ernie costumes, for the love of Sesame Street.

Until I see a whole gaggle of Magic Mikes shivering in their cock socks and bow ties, I'm sticking with my pregnant nun getup. Stop looking like you're turning tricks when you're trick or treating, baby doll, or I'm going to have to tighten your kittycat corset until you toss your candy corn. Meow.

(photo: completelybonkers.co.uk)

Themed Christmas trees

’Tis the season to be jolly…not to coordinate your tree with your great room décor.

A Christmas tree should be a joyous jumble of handmade ornaments, crude garlands, and twinkling lights.

What is should not be: an accessory. It should not be tricked out to match your couch or your carpet or your paint color. It shouldn’t be tastefully, blandly monochromatic. And it shouldn’t look like it belongs on the floor of your local Pottery Barn or Joann Fabrics. When my parents split, my mom left behind the handmade ornaments our family had made and accumulated over the years. Instead of ornaments made out of glitter and a green metal ashtray from McDonalds (remember those?), we had a fake flocked tree adorned with blue plaid bows and little white seagulls perched in wooden napkin rings. Color me Ebenezer, but this didn’t exactly read Christmas to me. It screamed “aisle 4 in Michaels Crafts,” not a place where I wanted to spend much time during the holidays, for fear of stabbing my eyes out with florist’s wire.

Please pull out all of your ornaments—the wonky handmade ones, the corny gifts, the big-ass, almost-to-scale Santa you bought on an ill-advised trip to a Christmas Shoppe—and lather up your tree the way God and the Von Trapp family intended.

(photo: barefootfloor.com)

Premature holiday merch

I walked into my local grocery store the first week in January and saw something deeply disturbing. No, it wasn’t the boxes of Sweethearts or the heart-shaped box of chocolates so big it could double as a sled.

It was the box of Cadbury Eggs.

It was the first week of January. Easter falls on April 24.

I adore these fondant treats…around Easter. I’ll break any lenten chocolate ban for a gooey Cadbury Egg. However, getting thrown into a palette of Valentine’s Day candy (which the checker told me was the case) doesn’t exactly invoke feelings of love. In fact, quite the opposite. I want to beat Cadbury until it oozes Caramello.

Every year, folks yammer on about the Christmas candy and decorations they see popping up at Rite-Aid in October. Uh, they show up at the exact same time every year, Einsteins…which is far too early. Send the rotten eggs packing and shove those candy canes up your North Pole. Let’s get through one holiday before exploiting the next.

Baby New Year

Picking on Baby New Year is like shooting a guppy in a barrel. Three words have never been combined to such ridiculous effect (well, except maybe for Jar Jar Binks). A diapered baby with a pageant sash is the best we can come up for a spokesman at midnight on December 31? Baby should be snoozing in his crib, not hoovering Asti and twirling a noisemaker.

And don’t even get me started on Father Fucking Time. It’s past your bedtime, too, ding-dong. Drink some warm milk, wrap your beard around you like a wiry blanket, clap off the light, and call it a year.

(photo: handmadebymother.blogspot.com)

New Year's Eve

My friends keep circling me, poking me to make a decision about New Year's Eve. I patiently, dare I say lovingly, explain that I don't do NYE. I threw in that bar towel several years ago.

What a well-meaning friend says: "Oh, we can do something low key, stay in the neighborhood and drink at a bar."

What I think: I'd rather claw my face off. Better yet, I'd rather beat that drunk on the bar with a noise-maker until he squeals.

What I say: "Thanks but, um, no. I'm treating it like it's just another night."

What a soulful, enlightened friend suggests: "Come over to my house and we'll have a burning ceremony and set intentions for the new year."

What I think: While that sounds magical, waving around a sage stick still marks this as a special day, which, in my date book, it's not.

What I say: "Honey, I love you but I think I'll spend the evening journaling by myself. Maybe I'll even create a vision board for 2011."

Why do I want to punch December 31 right in the Dom-soaked digits? Read my post from last year. I'm THIS close to losing an eye from a champagne cork so NYE, you win the end-of-year cage fight. I'm tapping out.

(photo: kcnewyears.com)

Ebenezers

My laundry list of holiday gripes is long and storied. Santa hats, lawn inflatables, poinsettas, theme sweaters, mall parking lots, antlers and shiz on the front of gas-sucking SUVs, year-round Christmas shoppes, year-round Christmas decorations, Wal-Mart…

However, I love Christmas. I love any opportunity to give and get a gift. I love bubble lights on a fresh tree and the looks of sugared-up delight on the faces of kids in pajamas with feet. I love Midnight Mass. I love the spirit of love and generosity that wells up within me when I’m surrounded by my closest friends during magical December dinner parties. I love the free-flowing booze that comes with any holiday party worth its salted rims. I love hot roast beast and cold rum cake.

So suck on it, you bah humbuggin’ Scrooges. You get back what you put out, so if you’re navigating the holidays with a stone-cold heart, you’re going to get a lump of coal in your stocking and a lump on your face from the Ghost of Christmas Present, which is what I’m calling my mittened right fist.

God bless us all, everyone.

(photo: cedmagic.com)

And the winner is…Sevara!

With an embarrassment of riches, the likes of which have not been seen since Gywneth Paltrow’s guest spot on Glee, your entries made it almost impossible to pick a winner in the TIWTPITF festival of frights. From limp lawn inflatables and parking lot asswipes to forced office gift-giving, the holidays do indeed offer up a host of new things that deserve to be punched until they beg for fruitcake. Oh, I’ve got a gift for all these things and it’s called my left fist. And I have a gift for Sevara, who gets a copy of Beyond the Family Tree for her short list of TIWTPITF. Her first point made me laugh out loud, no small feat during December. Sevara, shoot me an e-mail here with your address and I’ll send out your copy in short order, hopefully in time to use it during your family gathering.

Thanks again everyone; your snark keeps me warm on cold nights.

Sevara said…

1. Yearly family card. Yes, I really wanted to know that your Johnny is making $100,000 a month, and that daughter Jenny just gave birth to the most beautiful baby girl. First of, fuck off. Don't tell me about your perfect family, because we all know that Johnny is an asshole, your family is in debt because you guys are keeping up with the Joneses, and your beautiful, smart, "cough" slut "cough" Jenny got knocked up by some idiot, who was obligated to marry her. Thanks for that fake pose you sent me and Merry Christmas to the Assholes.
2. Musux. It's the most annoying time of the year! I hate Rudolf, Santa, chestnuts, and all of the other X-mas music. And they start it in-mid October!
3. Gifts. Okay, I love giving gifts to people I love and enjoy spending time with, like, my family and friends. But other "friends" that believe they are the best people out there, and we are all are "so close". NOT! That is why I never return your calls, emails, texts—because I don't want to talk to you. And I don't want to get you a gift, either. I don't want to spend my money on you. I'd rather burn ten bucks in my fireplace than buy you shit from the dollar store.

Honorable mentions

Marissa said...
SECRET SANTA at work. I'm forced to spend forty hours of my life with people that, quite frankly, are not my cup of tea. The only reason I grace them with my presence is because some faceless dude is PAYING me to do so. That being said, why the hell would I go out of my way to do something special for the woman who is the very bane of my existence? Or the guy who not so quietly brags about his sexual conquests after a night of binge drinking? HUH? Why would I spend the money I'm being paid to share air space with these goons on gifts for them when I have a perfectly good box of used cat litter ready and available? Secret Santas in the workplace need a firm blow to the face with a yule log.

Shieldmaiden96 said...
Christmas letters (in cute fonts, on theme-appropriate laser printer paper) tucked in cards. We have one friend who writes a seven-paragraph Christmas letter every year. It's mostly to make sure we all know how fabulous, unusually advanced, and super-duper creative each and every one of his kids has become, and just how fan-diddly-tastic life is in their household. I hate his kids and I've never even met them.

KeriCan said...

Obligatory Christmas cards. Seriously, if you think your relationship with my family is close enough to warrant buying a card, locating our address after the umpteenth move, forking over for stamps, and hauling your ass to the post office, the least you could do is write a little message in the card. Just signing your name, or much worse, stamping your name, only makes me want to smack you the next time I see you. I don't give a crap about the cute illustration you picked out for this year; I'd rather get a little note, even typed if you must, about your life. Better yet, give up that glittery mess of a card and just call so we can have a meaningful conversation.

(photo: reserve123.com)

Post your own holiday PITF and win!

As my gift to you, my beloved malcontents, I'll be giving away a signed copy of my new book, Beyond the Family Tree: A 21st-Century Guide to Exploring Your Roots and Creating Connections (which, believe you me, will come in handy around the dinner table). To win this decidedly un-TIWTPITF prize, simply draft a post of the thing that drives you batshit crazy around the holidays. Be it fruitcake, wreaths attached to car grilles, shoppers wearing santa hats or Quacker Factory holiday sweaters, let it rip. Post your rant in the comments section of this post. I'll pick a winner next week! Merry effin' Christmas!

Christmas muzak

Grandma may have gotten run over by a reindeer, but I want to run the song over with a 3-ton truck. And don’t even get me started about that fucking drummer boy kid. “Pa rum pum pum pum”, really? Did an 18-month-old write this song?

Let’s face it: most Christmas songs blow dead reindeer. And the ones that are tolerable—preferably sung by Bing Crosby or Elvis—are so overplayed that I want to hang myself with my Christmas lights Hark, the herald angels suck.

Silent night? If only.

(photo: christmas.itbestshop.com)

The holidays?

I don't need to tell you: The holidays offer all sorts of new opportunities to be monumentally annoyed. As wondrous as they can be, they can also fuckin' suck. Fellow shoppers, drunk relatives, escalating credit card bills, shipping charges, broken heirloom ornaments, pine needles on your carpet…

So, in the spirit of the season, I'm offering some ways to navigate the holidays without killing someone with a fruitcake. Check out my other blog, word., for ideas for gifts and gathering in a way that won't break the bank or your spirit. And if you need any no-brainer gifts, look no further than one of my humorous, heartfelt, or how-to books.

And if you need a laugh, a few classics:

Christmas stores

Year-round Christmas Decorations

Renewal of wedding vows

Thanks to everyone who submitted their punch lists. While there was some overlap, I was staggered by the variety of tasty peeves that exist, and heartened by the ginormous community of kindred malcontents. I might steal some ideas from these lists for future posts and always feel free to send in one or many things you want to punch in the face. I’m glad to showcase your many irritations.

Anyway, onto shooting fish in a barrel…

I watch the Real Housewives of New York City. In fact, I’ve updated the game of “Fuck-Marry-Kill” and instead, play “Maim-Torture-Kill” when watching this hot mess of designer insane. The crazy-eyed queen of RHONY is Ramona Singer, who after 17 years of marriage to Mario, has decided to renew her vows as part of her “renewal” theme this season. (While I know she’s using this catchphrase to hawk her Tru Renewal face cream, it instead makes me think of Logan’s Run. I really wish she’d go to Carousel and get zapped with the kind of laser that kills rather than treats broken capillaries. Needless to say, she often gets my “kill” shot.)

Anyway…the renewal of their wedding vows is irking me more than Simon’s red vinyl pants. A wedding is supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Doing it twice with the same person is just self-indulgent and frankly gross. Renewing your vows is antithetical to what the original vows are: vows. You don’t need to make them again. The original vows didn’t expire.

And renewing them is no guarantee. They have the smell of “jump the shark” desperation on them. Jon and Kate got hair plugs and a fresh baby bird haircut, respectively, when they renewed their vows in Hawaii, and we all know how well that turned out.

Or maybe all is right in your married world, and you just want to do something with that closetful of money. Here’s an idea: Throw a party, give a toast, but don’t fucking call in an officiant and don’t wear white. The gig is up. Maybe I’m reading too much into the folks who thought the wedding was so nice, they did it twice. Perhaps renewing your vows is nothing more than an excuse for dreckitude hair. Heidi Klum went with cornrows; Celine Dion went with a “Cleopatra meets Ann Boleyn by way of Valley of the Dolls” look. Last time I checked, Halloween and your wedding day are not interchangeable, unless maybe you’re Elvira.

Tell your spouse how much you love him or her, save the catering fee, and don't ask me to be a bridesmaid again, or else I'm going to have to renew my commitment to punching you in the face. Isn't a fist sandwich the appropriate gift for a 17th anniversary? No? It is now.

(photo: http://bit.ly/15GdIy, guardian.co.uk)

Irish pubs on St. Patrick’s Day

I love me some shepherd’s pie and a pint most days of the year. But when March 17 rolls around, I avoid green and McPubs like the plague. Arse clowns in the cups assume fake brogues and dance around like leprechauns who’ve finally found their pot o’ gold. And mo chuisle, it's "Erin Go Bragh," not Erin go braless.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’re not even Irish, for feck’s sake!

Take off the dumbass green bowler—it’s your unlucky charm today, Danny Boy—so I can beat you about the ears with a shillelagh. Better yet, here’s a pipin’ hot pot of colcannon. If you want to be Irish, you’ll need to suffer a little.

(photo: blogs.pitch.com/fatcity)

Happy birthday, TIWTPITF!

It was a year ago today that lemonade was made out of the lemons of my life. January 2009 sucked it hard and I was on my last nerve. TIWTPITF was a therapy of sorts and it got me giggling again. It made me happy, and it still does.

And all of you, the cyber malcontents who've embraced the blog and vicariously whack shit along with me, have definitely made me look on the bright side of things.

So today, I'm going to punch myself in the face because I hate dumbass anniversaries. Hey, at least I didn't celebrate my one-month anniversary with the blog, so there's that.

(photo: psychologytoday.com)

Giant balloons

I love me a marching band and I admire the ephemeral art of a flower-festooned float, replete with a has-been or never-was singer, but I don’t really get the point of a giant Underdog balloon. You can’t play with it, you can hardly see the details of it from ground level, and it takes a small army to keep it from taking flight. Is the point to create something large enough to be seen from space? I think Kayne’s ego and Opryland Hotel pretty much have that covered.

In a year where Balloon Boy took us on a fright of fancy, helium’s never been so hot. But sorry to burst your bubble, Buzz Lightyear, but I think the hundreds of thousands of dollars it costs to create, fill, and parade you down Seventh Avenue could be better spent feeding the homeless during the holiday or hiring Rick Astley to rick-roll a few floats. Didn’t we learn anything from Mr. Stay Puft? Giant inflatables are freaks of nature and bound to give kids nightmares.

Stick a fork in these things, already. (Unless, of course, you want to bust out a blow-up Rob Pattinson, in which case I might be forced to reconsider my position.)

(Photo: nytix.com)

New Year’s Eve

My “top” New Year’s Eves:

• 1970-something: Mom and dad went to some party at the Holiday Inn—the motel where mom waited tables—and left me at home with my two older brothers. My Mrs. Beasley doll was decapitated that night, a harbinger of the tragic NYEs that were to come.
• 1987: Me, Lois, and Chris in Chris’s basement drinking Jager and playing euchre while wearing U-M boxer shorts. This would have been fine except for my inability to hold my hooch. I think I hurled around the time Weird Al was explaining his secret hangover recipe to Joe Piscopo on MTV. Poor timing, indeed.
• 1989: I was freshly heartbroken and covering the Rose Bowl for the yearbook, so I was in L.A. with the staff photographer. We wound up at a giant alumni party in the Valley on New Year's Eve, where I ran into my ex-boyfriend with his new girlfriend. I spent the night walking around the party with a 12-pack, dispensing beers to people who had a reason to live. I then sped back to the hotel on one of the freeways in a fugue state, stayed up all night, and then downed gallons of black coffee in the Rose Bowl press box…where I was seated next to my ex-boyfriend, a sports editor for the Michigan Daily. Oh, and Michigan lost that year.
  
• 1994: Me, my boyfriend, and a giant party at the Washington Hilton—the hotel where Reagan was plugged—with a few thousand of our closest strangers. We left in short order. The highlight of the night was getting a lift from one of the idling limos, which were acting as gypsy cabs while waiting for clients.
• 2004: Got stoned with my best friend while teaching her to knit and watching Gigli. This officially marked my march into spinsterdom.
• 2008: Me, a sorta boyfriend (who drank too much and eventually passed out), and two gay bears sat on the couch and watched Mythbusters. Holla. Oh yeah, he broke things off the next week via IM. This really set the tone for the massive suck that has been 2009.
• Tie for first/worst: 1990 & 2003: 1990 found me in Detroit, partying it up with my college friends at a party at the top of the RenCen. I wish I could say I was drunk, but I was just dumb-ass stupid. I went up a down elevator…or tried to. After a scary ambulance ride to Detroit Receiving with a driver who resembled Large Marge, I spent five hours getting my Frankenknee stitched up while hiking up my Ann Taylor skirt to avoid bloodshed and eyeballing the motley crew around me. One poor woman sat in a chair, holding her face because her boyfriend hit her with a bat. A dude in red briefs was shot in the thigh at a nightclub and bloody rags surrounded his gurney. And a guy was chained to his bed because he was caught stealing a Rolex; his head was swathed in bandages like he was a Dickens’ character with a really bad toothache. He didn’t have a toothache; the po po beat him. I couldn’t bend my knee for two weeks, which made driving a bit of a challenge. Fast forward a decade and change, and you’d find me at Bob & Barbara’s, a dope dive bar in Philly, watching my boyfriend kiss a guy in front of me. I walked out and left him behind. I wish I had the sense to ditch New Year’s Eve as well.

I've wised up and punched this holiday in its festive fucking façade. Should New Year’s Eve be forgot and never brought to mind? Hells, yeah. If I want to stay alive, I’m now finally ignoring this most ignoble of days.

What was your worst NYE experience?

(photo: cheapoairbuzz.wordpress.com)

Express lane hogs

Really? Are you really going to try to pass off your Thanksgiving shopping for a family of eleven and, by the looks of it, several pets, as a modest express lane basket? Really? The stuffing ingredients alone exceed the limit, which, in case you forgot your glasses or can’t read, is 12.

And just because you’re not making eye contact with me doesn’t mean I’m not here or that you’ve suddenly rendered your overflowing cart invisible. I can see you, your party bags of Ruffles, and string-bean casserole ingredients. And you’re all making me sick. Instead of being thankful for my good fortune and the peppermint ice cream in my basket, I’m stewing over your gross misconduct.


Let me talk turkey: you blow. And I bet your spinach dip does, too.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for a few things: my impending tryptophan coma, for example, when I can forget all about you and your shoddy holiday behavior. It’s not called Thankstaking now, is it?

(Photo: static.pixelpipe.com)

Windsocks

Your windsock stays on my mind. In fact, it’s burned into my retina. I’ve tried to consider the lilies of the field, really I have, but I can’t. Because your giant rainbow windsock is spoiling, spinning, and polluting my view.

I already knew you were a Notre Dame fan, thanks to the bumper sticker, license plate frame, and leprechaun antenna ball on your PT Snoozer. I don’t need to be reminded of your misguided love, because frankly, I could care less. And like your unfathomable affection for the Fightin’ Irish, I also don’t give a rat’s ass about your penchant for pirates, whales, or snowmen. Why do you feel the need to clog up your yard, porch, stoop, or front door with these garbage bags?

Do you keep your seasonal or themed windsocks in the garage next to the extra lawn gnomes, gazing balls, and inflatable snow globes? Since your windsocks are most likely flame-retardant, I think the best way to clean house is to sew these polyester air condoms together, fill them with helium, and create a hot-air balloon that can transport these back to hell, or at least to the local landfill.

(Photo: piratecorner.ca)