I am your typical Scrooge.
And I have reason to be anything otherwise. Christmas is a mess. You trudge out in the snow, ruin your clothing, heave your way into a car with a frozen heating system, and shiver your way to the mall. You then run around from store to store for 5 hours, hoping to come out with something decent, only to find that you don't, in fact, have any money whatsoever. So after waiting those 2 hours in line, you're a little stressed...not to mention the line behind you is a little stressed when you try to pay for your prada bag in pennies. You leave the store disoriented, aged a good fifty years, and armed with bubble-blowers.
Then, of course, everyone expects you to to bake for them. You spend hours toiling over decadent, sexual little morsels of goodness, only to have them inhaled within a second of putting them on the table. The dinner isn't much better. By the time you reach your hand over for the bowl of cranberry sauce, the other guests have already stuck their straws in the dish and sucked out the remains. Wine? Ham? That horrible sweet potato mash that no one seems to like, but still snarf it down any year anyway? Forget it. Don't expect to eat for the next three days.
Call me a little bitter, but I'd much rather have a holiday that celebrated the existence of the English language. At least then everyone would be too bored to participate, and I could eat my gingersnaps in peace.
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