A Humbug to a Humbug

"A Christmas Carol" is a book I've often described as my favorite Charles Dickens story, but upon reflecting today, I've decided to reconsider that.

Scrooge's becoming a miser, recluse, and misanthrope was the work of many years of bad decisions, regret, and heartache; his becoming a gleeful and charitable soul was the work of one night's fever dream. Most people with far fewer personality flaws than Scrooge don't EVER get rid of them -- even after years of therapy and concerted effort, and even if you tell them they'll die because of how badly they're screwing up. Further, none of these people are forgiven in a single day, even if it's Christmas, just for doing some nice gestures and saying they'll change their ways. Am I really to expect, Mr. Dickens, that all it takes is one night of panic, a morning of giving away some money and food and presents, and then I'll be a joyful individual who is well-liked by all who know me? Realistically, in his day and age, Scrooge would've been locked up as a madman for such a rapid personality shift, even if he left OUT the part of his night that included hallucinating these ghostly voices of conscience.

Just because he changed his ways doesn't mean the rest of the world would have to. First, give the sensible and rightfully resentful people of the neighborhood ONE good reason to lock up a man they ALREADY hate. Then watch all the money he's accumulated over the years suddenly disappear into the coffers of those not only who DIDN'T have a panic attack the night before, but those who were seriously tired of taking Scrooge's bullshit and decided this facetious and self-interested campaign of holiday cheer was the last goddamn straw. You didn't have friends yesterday, Scrooge, and the greatest present your town will have ever gotten will be 1) the joyful sight of your ass getting thrown in the twinkiemobile to get shipped off to the loony bin, and 2) the chance to raid your home and counting-house for all the dough you've squirreled away after years of exploiting them.

Screw you, Dickens. You haven't taught me a damn thing.

And Against Thou Shall It Rise

It is when the darkness falls that I feel it.

Deep within me, it stirs. A shadow. A poison. A savage and invisible mass of murderous horror that wants nothing more than to be set free and to destroy. There are days that I try to fight it, even though it claws at my insides and howls.

That’s the worst of it -- when its rages become so loud that, even when my resolve is strong and I lock the beast away, it still can be heard through the walls of its meager prison. Today was such a day -- but. The rumblings of its abominable, guttural croak. Its unremitting, unflagging pounding against the barricades I’ve placed around it. The pain -- oh, god, the pain it wreaks upon me -- not only the dread of knowing its ascension is inevitable, but the knowledge that its torturous wringing of my insides is but a fraction of the suffering it was cause me AND you. Yes. This thing within me -- it is not satisfied to destroy me. It will arise to blight you, as well. When it arises, you would beg to have back your worst day.

And I do say “when”. I won’t fight this wretched force of evil any longer. I have given into it -- and if I must suffer, then by the devil who sired me, I will wreak upon you and the rest of your world tenfold the suffering that has been inflicted on me. The evil within me will burst forth and consume you, and on this day shall we both know of each other equal anguish and hatred.

So don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Now pull my finger.



 (This elaborate fart joke brought to you by whatever the hell they were serving in the cafeteria today.)