It's the little things in life that make holidays special.

Like man-eating snowmen and yodelling snowboarders at risk.
Shake and bake your holiday cookies right here.
Actually, the snowman seems to prefer women.

(Thanks to Scott the FisherPrice Hairdo Boy for this. Yer a good beeb.)



"Walkin' 'round in Women's Underweaaar."

Because it's just merrier than walking 'round a Winter Wonderland.

This is the time of year when I get excited and nauseated all at once. Or is it nauseous instead. It really doesn't matter: It's Christmas-time. Yes, in my little white yet genetically mongrelled Anglo-Saxon world, I am not in the least bit concerned with Hannukah or Kwanzaa, or Boxing Day for that matter. Why should I, unless of course it benefits me directly.

No, I was born and raised a Protestant consumer, and dammit, Santa better be stuffing a big bag of consumables down my fake chimney this year, and soon. I don't slobber all over Crate and Barrel catalogs all year long for nothin'. Bring me some over-priced hand-crafted marshmallows from Williams-Sonoma. Fetch me a lampshade from Pottery Barn that I'll get tired of in two months. I know who I am. Shut up and bring it! And make it platinum not gold, Mr. Kringle!!

I feel like that every Christmas. Spoiled and slightly pathetic because of it. Not just because I have to go shopping for myself before I can feel enough guilt to melt the credit cards for others. But also because I watch too many National Geographic specials about kids in Africa wanting a plastic comb or toothbrush for Christmas.

How confusing is that. I don't know how to relate to that at all, nor can I change the fact. I hate losing perspective. And also hate that I can lose it for a good 11 months at a time obviously.

So this year I've decided to ask Santa for a Sony PS2, and never actually watching tv again.

I kid. I kid because I'm a guilty consumer. Advertising made us all this way.