I took my turn listening to jazzy Christmas carols with headphones on full-blast today, prompted by necessity and post-modern Pissed Off to put a bullet straight into my Previous Research Experience essay. The National Science Foundation demands specificity, asking for every obscure technical term and piece of jargon like a dry-humping dog at the feast table, wanting it all. I provided them with the scraps and got the fuck out as Ray Charles cluster-cummed through the all too nearby stereo speakers of Starshmucks.

Fate brought me to Jalapeno and my usual chicken burrito. Some Aryan wank in hotel black and slacks strolled in not 5 minutes ago, purposeful in stride and just jaunty enough to show the driver outside he was sassy. He confirmed some order and sashayed out, looking at me and my distended member of a middle finger briefly. I wasn�t in the mood for a corporate consort of any fashion. I had enough of Ray�s jizz-jazz burning in my ears already.

Some gaggling jack off is bouncing staccato off the metal and wall interiors, ping-pong balls of snorty laughing that kisses the killer in me. These are the moments when my sharpened kukari knife and I need to get presents for ourselves, to move over, silently, and pluck a few hairs from the top of this animal specimen. Likely you�d get a deer in the headlights effect from this kind of Christmas shopping. The typical suburban male: all dick and no balls.

Everyone looks purposefully happy, as if a radio station had flicked inside their heads to the Merry Season station. Everyone is a little happier, a little lighter, a lot more full of shit. It�s our yearly cultural ritual as God-fearing American sheep, sacrificing good sense and the sensibly desperate quiet of our lives into a charade for the razor fingernails of winter. Tryptophan and turkey left-overs prompt a flash flood of shopping: in Walmarts, Targets, Bed Bath and Beyonds, to the liquor stores of Watts and the effete country club golf shacks of Palm Beach. Every whore to every John and Jane. Safe sex is rampant, with paper or plastic coating hands for treatful delights. Corporations sing us half-asleep assholes lullabies and dangle swattable chew toys, the religious holiday of capitalism and a 2,000 year old lie made by a former persecutor of Jews and the traitorous disciple of Christ who founded a perverse testament to incomplete teachings. Judas had the humility to kill himself at least. I respect him above all the others for that.

I respect genuine faith and cheer that isn�t pre-packed in a McDonald�s wrapper and slaughtered from the overbred meat of empty festivities. Yeah yeah yeah, it�s all just a well-meaning excuse for fun or a genuine testament to love and cherish a remarkably amazing man/son of God/Thingy.

All I�m saying is that Ray Charles doesn�t need to come back from the grave to skull-fuck my ears while a thousand fake snowflakes coat products that smile in PVC and leather bodices, bouncing with energy while cooing price tag enticements.

Time to get productive, quit this Jalapeno joint, and find some pretentious coffee haven where they have the decency to have all-instrumental Christmas music. That�s easier to block out, thankfully.

(1 hour later)

I was right: twinkling Christmas music. All this place needs is a transsexual midget sporting fuzzy yellow-silver tinsel and a surreptitious wink. Hell, it�s already wall to wall Fellini around this time of year�

(which, for non-film majors, means that there are rampant, comical archetypes prancing everywhere. Case in point, the teenage couple that kisses for way too damn long in public over at stage left and diagonal. Who needs Mistletoe when you�ve already got wood, right?)

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