Big Ugly Man Doll

And we’re into the top ten, or the bottom ten, depending on how you look at it. 

Look, I’m just going to give it a rest over here, and we’re all going to take note of the “in-you-end-oh” connotations of the word nuttin’ and just not worry about  some 10-yr-old who’s getting a nutting for Christmas.  That’s just wrong.  And we’re not going to make jokes about him staying with his Uncle Sandusky for the holidays, either.  Nope.  We’re taking the high road today.

OK, yeah, if we’re taking the high road it’s only because my GPS broke and I’ll be damned if I’ll ask for directions back to the gutter.  We’ll find it soon enough.

So every time I hear this one, somewhere in the back of my mind is Eddie Murphy, reading his poetry from prison.

I broke my bat on Johnny’s head.
Kill that bastard.  Kill that bastard.
I hid a frog in sister’s bed;
Kill that bastard.  Kill that bastard.
I spilled some blood on Mommy’s rug;
I made Tommy eat a lead slug;
Stole some gum with nary a shrug;
Somebody snitched on me.
I put a tack on teacher’s chair.
Don’t need no reason, life ain’t fair. 
Somebody snitched on me.
I tied a knot in Susie’s hair.
Somebody snitched on me
And if’n I find out it was Susie, I’ma shank that bitch when I get out.
Esh-Ay-En-Kay That Bitch.

Really?  Do we really need to detail the assaults, mayhem, animal abuse, and petty crimes required to get onto Santa’s bad side?  This isn’t a holiday song, it’s a recitation before the jury delivers a verdict!  Throw the book at it! 

Yeah, this is the bottom ten alright.  And as long we’re choosing bottoms and tops, I’d say we found the gutter again too, whaddaya say baby?  You watch this video and I’ll slip into something less constricting, see you 5 minutes.  You can keep the socks on.

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Every once in a while, some luckless knuckhead, some hapless sap will ask me, “Say, BUMD, what’s your wish for Christmas?  What do you want this year?”  And I tell them.

My one wish on Christmas Eve is as plain as it can be.   All I want for Christmas is not to hear the song about my my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth.   Why in the hell was sister Susie sitting on a thistle, and why would I want to say anything about it anyway?  If I’m mithing my teeth, my lipth are thealed.   Lithp something oneth, why lithp it again?

Even the jokes we make to the kids when they do, in fact, lose their central incisors simultaneously, are lame.  “Oh, well, looks like you’ll have something to wish for come Christmastime!  Ho ho! Ho!”   Why?  Because the song sucks. 

It just thuckth.

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For the 12th song of Christmas, I will give to you:

Twelve Bachmanns hating
Eleven Perrys baiting
Ten whack-jobs running
Nine-Nine-Nine Cains a-planning
Eight Johnsons waxing
Seven Huntsmans hunting
Six Newts a-laying
FIVE Mitts crashing lunch!
Four Roemers roaming
Three weird ol’ Ron Pauls
Two Confused Ricks
And an Advent of Holiday Dreck! 

God, how I loathe this song.  I lothe it in all its myriad holiday and socio-economic iterations.  I. Just. Don’t. Care.   Beer can’t make it better.  Even the Muppets can’t make it better. 

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The 13th song.  On the 13th of December.  Which ought to be a Friday, but it isn’t. 

Do you remember what I gave you for Christmas last year?  You don’t, do you?  I don’t either.  Oh wait, sure I do.  Last Christmas, I gave you my heart.  And what did you do?  You gave it away on the 26th.  Just like that.  The very next day.  Just, wham!  Gone.

This year, you know what?  I’m not going to give you my heart.  I’m going to give you my frickin’ spleen, baby – let’s see how long you keep that!  Then again, maybe I won’t – you know I’m once bitten, twice shy, babe.  (But if you kissed me now I know you’d fool me again, because I’m not just straight, I’m stupid.)

Yep, if Holiday Songs That Suck were weekdays, this one would be Friday the 13th.  I’d rather rip out my heart and give it to someone special than listen to this 1980s dreck again.  Just because some whiny schlockfest tearjerkoff mentions that the events in his hairspray-fueled horror story of love gone wrong happen to occur over the holidays does NOT make it a Christmas song!   Adeste Fidalis is a Christmas song.  This is an insipid ode to some Vincent van Gogh knockoff who’s trying to give away his organs and wondering why he can’t get laid.   Let’s examine:

She has a soul of ice and a lover with a fire in his heart.  Sounds to me like she could use some of her soul to help him out with that heartburn.  Probably ease up on the chili there, bud.  Also, she’s not good with money – she gave away his heart?  Do you have any idea what a decent heart is worth on the open market?

For his part, he’s been torn apart, but now has found a real love – you know, today.  He no longer has a heart (since he used it as a gift last year), so this Christmas he’s evidently going to give away another organ, to some new chick that he met skiing in Switzerland, who will give him something in return.  Last year’s girlfriend of the hour will never fool him again, but she may or may not hold his heart and watch it burn. 

Oh, sweet Santa Claus, all I want is a promise that someday, children everywhere will be safe from Wham.  Full disclosure:  I was unable to make it through even half the video, it’s just too painful.  It sucked the first time – I had to live through much of the 1980s, I don’t want to go back!  Ahhhh, the hair!  The Hair!  Ruuuuuuun! 

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It’s the Holiday Season, and we’re counting down the Christmas songs that really make me gag, the kind you’d rather hammer your thumb a few times than listen to them on the radio again.  You know the kind.  They go like this:

It’s a Holiday Horror
And all the songs that we detest
Get played along with all the rest
When Christmas time keeps rolling around
They’ll be bringing all my spirits down, down
They’ll be bringing all my spirits down

It’s a Holiday Horror
And Santa Claus is coming back
He’s mad as hell, and looks like Jack
Nich – ol – son when he was on crack!
Come on down the chimney, clown.

It’s a Holiday Horror
And Santa Claus has got a toy
For every good girl and good little boy (But not the good big boys, they’re on their own)
He’s a great big bundle of joy (He’s the Chattanooga Shoe-Shine Boy?)
He’ll be coming down the chimney, down
Coming down the chimney, down

It’s a Holiday Horror
With the whoop-de-do and hickory dock (can anyone tell me what the hell a hickory dock is?  anyone?  I’m waiting for a mouse to run up a friggin’ clock over here)
And don’t forget to hang your dirty sweat sock
Cause just exactly at 12 o’clock (because Santa has OCD just like the rest of us…)
He’ll be coming down the chimney
Coming down the chimney
Coming down the chimney, down!

Aaaaagghh.  Make it stop.  It is January yet?

No, really, it really sounds like that.  Listen: 

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