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.