‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house the elves were saying, “Stu, you have to comment, don’t be a louse.”
Stopped me from going into my wine cave, right there.
So here I am, using a Thomas Kinkade painting that could not deChristianize the holiday any more effectively.
I thought about religious art, but a lot of it is creepy and some other art is really creepy.
I looked through the large Christmas collection by American master Norman Rockwell. His alas, was too perfect and, as they say, not diverse. So out he went as I put Sounds of the Season on the satellite music channel. Oh — “Rudolph” is playing. Next, U2’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home.”) Can’t match Mariah Carey.
If you are waiting to hear “Ave Maria,” try going to church. (No, really — try going to church. Some of you need it. You know who you are.)
I can’t go to church. Well, I can but I’d be trespassing.
Did you send Christmas cards? I do, but each year the list gets shorter. Two reasons — some people decided to die, while others decided to not send me a card. Now, that raises the question of why anyone sends cards. Do we send them to make ourselves feel good, or to make someone else feel good?
For me, it is to make someone else feel good — but don’t they want me to feel good? What about their holiday spirit, huh?
Where was I?
Christmas — right.
What can I say that won’t be a cliche or all Hallmarky?
I know! This is all about friends and family. No one’s said that before, right?
Try this: When you see them, pretend you have not seen them in 10 years or pretend — this can be grim — you will never see them again. Because that is possible.
Then say, “Merry Christmas.”
And that is the spirit in which I wish you a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah or Happy Kwanzaa. Because we might never meet again.