A Christmas column. To say I love you.

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Just stop it okay? Listen to me. Christmas is fine as long as you take the position that it’s going to be shit. The motto should be Christmas! The perfect time to spend with family. Just not your own family.

And that’s the true beauty of Christmas. Be warm in the knowledge that as much as you’re dreading spending Christmas with someone, there’s someone out there dreading spending it with you! Yes, you! As you’re shuffling, long faced, hunched shoulders and full of oppressed rage around some soulless multiplex trying to work out what you can buy that looks more expensive than it is for someone you loathe, there’s someone picking through a discontinued, soiled or damaged table doing the same for you! Nothing says “I don’t like you or have any idea who you are but lack the creativity and courage to come up with an alternative” like a regifted box of broken Danish shortbread past its use by date, a calendar or a sports towel. Whatever that is. I think it’s a towel of hate.

Last minute Christmas idea? Euthanise yourself!

What makes Christmas jar so much is all the images of the perfect family, which confront the experience we have of our own families. The relentless assault of commercials of relations who appear genuinely joyful to see each other, clean houses and domestic bliss can’t help but make us come to the conclusion that we’re shit.

You’re not alone if your response to these images is “That’s not how it is at our place. By 2pm, Mum’s packing the dishwasher – with tears pouring down her face after receiving six books she already has. Dad’s collapsed in the Jason Recliner rocker wearing a paper crown after a pissing competition with Uncle Neville, who’s stormed off with his new Asian wife. Mum’s sister Nancy found texts on dad’s phone from some woman called Amber. Mum’s her other sister Rehab Shirley just called their 86 year old mother a cunt. Which she is. The sisters-in-law are all secretly texting each other about the quality of the desserts and the amount spent on gifts after they’ve taken snaps of them and posted them on eBay. The brothers are playing out their sibling rivalry and mummy issues with backyard cricket. “Over the fence is out. And why were you breastfed longer than me? Sorry, didn’t mean to knee your son in the nuts.” The brother-in -laws are huddled out near the shed, conflicted about all agreeing their 12 year niece is hot. Then they realize one of them is her father.” [ED: Note to self – must attend Deveny family Christmas before I die]

It’s worthwhile reminding ourselves that the happy families force fed to us by the media are actors. No one would do that for free. Those people who say, “I love Christmas!” You know what that makes me think? How shit the rest of their life must be.

But the images do make us think, “We must be the only family riddled with passive aggression, corrosion, disappointment, secrets and resentment.” Guess what? Good news! We’re all dysfunctional! And the more functional a family appears, the more dysfunctional they are! No, I’m not bitter. I am happy and released in the truth. Life is so much easier with realistic expectations. Come on board the sanity boat, there’s plenty of room. And heaps of grog.

I have for many years said having children and a vagina means December is spent being a slave and an emotional potty for most of the month. Yes that’s right. Christmas, turning back feminism 150 years.

(WARNING SALIENT POINT COMING. DON’T WORRY. IT’S ONLY A PARAGRAPH – THAT’S LIKE FOUR TWEETS – THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A FREE COLUMN)

The amount of unpaid labor done by women at this time of year is astonishing. The blokes may pick up the ice, mow the lawn and carve the ham but I challenge you to look around on Christmas day and seriously work out how much of the food, thought, purchasing, organizing, cleaning, wrapping and social lubricant is provided by the women. Take away the woman’s effort and then see what you’re left with. No wonder they all chuck barneys, do their block and double their medication. That’s my excuse anyway.

(THERE ENDETH THE PILL IN THE DOG FOOD)

Apropos Santa. Listen, he’s real, just ask my kids. As if I’d spend all that money and effort buying presents for my ungrateful whinging little maggots.

Small segueway here – what’s the difference between Santa and Tiger Woods? Santa stops after three hos.

The child psychology funbusters out there are now telling us parents that we should tell kids ‘the truth about Santa’ That’s right. According to them it’s ‘bad’ to ‘lie’ to our ‘children.’ Lying to our children? Back off. Parents do it all the time. It’s the only fun we have.

For example:

– “Mummy and Daddy love each other.” Crap.

– “The best presents are the made ones.” Wrong. The best presents are the large expensive ones that your father would have bought me if he wasn’t a bludging useless loser addicted to porn.

– “I love you kids all the same.” Not true. I’m a mother. I know. We have favorites. Get over it. And you know who my favorite is? The kid next door because he’s cute, he doesn’t have nits and he doesn’t call me a fat maggot.

– “Uncle Randy jumps out the window when Daddy comes home because he’s a kangaroo.” Not true. He jumps out of the window because he’s a root rat.

– “If the wind changes you’ll stay like that.” That is actually true. But there is no need to worry. You’re ugly anyway.

– “The gelati van plays the music when it runs our of ice cream.” Lie. Truth? Mummy is a mean tightarse who hates kids. Especially her own.

The truth about Santa? Santa is an anagram of Satan. Oh yeah, and if you play Rudolf The Red Nose Reindeer, it basically says “Satan is Lord, Satan is Lord.” It sounds exactly like Nickelback.

Merry Christmas

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