Merry Christmas, Hayden!
You know, Santa's well into the "checking-it-twice" phase of his annual naughty-nice list making. And we suspect when he comes across your name the fat man's likely to pop a gasket.
Near as we can tell,
this is how things went down. Daddy is incarcerated. Mommy has (sensibly) decided to divorce him. And you (perhaps the coolest four-year-old EVER), have made clear your intentions to enter the criminal underworld so that you might enjoy some maximum security father-son time. Last Tuesday night, you pinched a couple beers from the fridge and slipped out of the house while mumsy was watching CSI: Miami. A spectacular bender ensued:
- You chugged a brew.
- Feeling a tad bold, you broke into a neighbor's house and stole their Christmas presents.
- Soon thereafter, examining the night's take, you took immediate fancy to a frilly lil' dress. You stripped and slipped into the frock, pulling it over your spiderman underoos.
- To celebrate your new-found freedom, you cracked another can o' suds and went for a stroll through town (presumably to go a-honky-tonkin').
- You caught the attention of a kindly policeman, who found it slightly odd to encounter an inebriated transves-tyke prancing through the town commons on a Tuesday.
- You were invited to the hospital where you were treated for acute drunknicity. Evench, you were released to the care of your remarkably competent mother.
So. Hayden. Here's the thing. According to every nauseating Christmas special ever made, we're supposed to be in touch with our inner child right about now. Tradition demands our hearts be filled with good cheer, that we join hands with Cindi-Lu Who and sing a song about how there's peace on earth and goodwill towards all men and stuff. You know, we're supposed to lie to each other, and save our receipts.
But thanks, Hayden, for reminding us of two very basic truths that NO ONE ever admits to.
First, for most people, Christmas is miserable. We pretend it's not; we act like we LOVE being reunited with bickering and/or bitter loved ones so we can exchange hideous sweaters and drink ourselves stupid. Or we find ourselves alone, all misery and no company. Maybe we're faced with hardships, we're failures who can't afford to buy our kids the gadgets television convinces them they deserve. Perhaps it's all so rote now, a seasonal calisthenic now drained of all meaning; so we coast through it, anesthetized, a hollow smile plastered to our faces with egg nog. Odds are, whoever claims to love Christmas is either in grade school or lying. Yeah, we said it.
Second, most children (unless they're your own) are insufferable. They are booger-eating, pants-pooping tantrum throwers. They scream daggers into our ears in airplanes and movie theatres. They have deplorable fashion sense and they're chronic attention whores. Yes, everyone thinks their child is a genius, but in reality almost every below-fiver is a barely endurable dimwit.
But you, Hayden. You. Are. Awesome.
We suspect you're endlessly entertaining and know you're destined for celebrityhood. We hail your brilliant actions as high performance art. Your brazen behavior reminds us what we've let this holiday become: 'tis the season of excessive drinking, retail sales and suicide. And all of us, were we as acquainted with that inner child as the yule tide demands, would cut loose, raise a little hell, dress like a tart and sashay down main street like a drag George Bailey mincing through a recession-choked Bedford falls.
And although you've been colossally naughty, we believe your parent's stockings are the ones Santa's going to stuff with coal.
The one gift we think you most deserve?
Without a doubt, your own reality series.
xox
WAM
Cindi-Lu Who sez: "F*ck it, all I want for Christmas is a subscription to this blog's feed."
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