A cat in a freezer.

The Christmas season isn't really my thing. Anymore, anyway. When I was seventeen, I had to be talked-down from the ledge of a two-story KFC/Pizza Hut in Federal Way because I found out that Santa Claus wasn't real, and that Rudolph's red nose was actually a malicious infection that ended up killing him in the slowest and most excruciating fashion recalled in veterinary history.

I mean, jolly? Really? The last time I checked, having rosy cheeks, being morbidly obese, wearing weird clothes, and handing out gifts to stranger children out of the back of your vehicle, doesn't mean that you're jolly. It means that you're a fat drunk pedophile. Even if you could actually fly, with your 9-pack of alien bird-deers, it would just mean that you're a fat drunk magical pedophile. That's not an improvement, it's probably more dangerous...

And there's a reason why back in the 1700's you were banished by the Norwegians to live in the North Pole: You're not supposed to break-in to people's houses in the middle of the night through their freaking chimney, hopping around tip-toe style like a creepy circus bear, poking around with your fat fingers eating gingersnaps out of their pantry, and looking at their children while they're sleeping with a shameless grin on your face like you just got a freebie at a strip club in Yakima.

It's gross.

Look, it's Jesus's birthday. Can't we all just meet up at a Dave & Buster's and get a $15.99 Eat N' Play combo? You get the ribs and macaroni, I'll get the jalapeƱo poppers and fries. We'll all wear cone-shaped birthday hats fastened to our heads with a rubber band strapped under our chins. We can play Dance Dance Revolution and Deer Hunter 6. Combo all our tickets together to get something really awesome on the top shelf of the prize store?

We can do the birthday the way everyone does birthdays. No wreaths. No foliage or shrubbery of any kind. The lights are cool... we can keep the lights. No Bette Midler or Rod Stewart singing about hot buttered rum and scarves. No Kay Jewelers commercials with a cheesy tan guy, wearing a brown turtleneck Dickie under a flannel shirt, in a log cabin, telling some big-breasted shiny forehead woman that he'll "never let go" after he gives her some heart-shaped piece of metallic-filth to dangle around her neck that I wouldn't use to tie-up a sack of baby poop that I intended to set on fire and place on my neighbors porch as a holiday prank. Not that I have an abundance of baby poop lying around in my fridge, or packaged-up in storage, I usually use any poop that I can get my hands on for that routine. The point is, they have bad commercials, and I'm sick of em.

I thought that I might lose a little bit of the spirit as I aged, not the whole thing. But I did. I lost it all. Instead of feeling cheer and warmth around the holidays, I've become angry and cold, like a cat in a freezer.

I wanted to start feeling good again, so two years ago I decided to start-up a couple of foundations for children. One for girls, and one for boys. I don't have a whole lot of people in my life that I figured would be willing to donate financially to anything that I am working on, so I thought that instead of donating money and physical resources to kids, I would donate my mind and thoughts. More of a discussion group, where I could talk to these kids about what they're going through, and make sure that they have a well-founded perspective to rely upon and gain some clarity regarding the situations they are in.

My foundation for girls is one that revolves around girls with tough dads, not necessarily abusive, just dad's with high standards and a stern approach to fatherhood. It's called: Sisters Living Under Tough Sircumstances.

I decided to do the word-spin on "Sircumstances (circumstances)" to emphasize the point that some fathers, and men in general, want to be referred to as Sir. It's understandable. Kids are becoming such little punk faces nowadays that I think it's good to get back to the old-fashioned roots of discipline and respect for elders. The group started with twelve girls two years ago, and now I'm down to just one, Sandy. She threatens to leave every year because I "keep getting crazier and more difficult to understand". But, that shows that she still hasn't fully grasped my message yet, and we've got more work to do.

My foundation for boys is one that revolves around soft-centered boys that are having a difficult time dealing with their powerful and successful mothers. It's called: Brothers In Tough Conditions Handling Everything Sub-par.

It's understandable. Women are pursuing their own careers and professional dreams nowadays, and it's not always the man that wears the pants in the relationship. Sometimes the man isn't wearing any pants at all. Sometimes the woman is wearing the bra, pants, a nice blouse and jacket, and even has a suitcase or impressive Coach satchel of some kind with an expensive laptop and full personal schedule inside of it. When mommy tells you to shut your mouth because you're being a little idiot, shut your mouth, dummy. I'm not saying you're a stupid kid, and your mom is more of a man than you are (which she probably is), I'm just saying shut your mouth and go play with your trucks or watch a scribbly television channel in an attic, like a normal boy, dummy.

I'm down to two members of this foundation now, Todd and Billiam. They're both pretty stupid kids, but damn it if I don't care about them like my favorite lamp. Neither one of them is teachable, so we usually just end up going to a shooting range, or standing in the median of a nearby highway for thrills.

My point is, even if you lose your Christmas spirit, you can still find a way to give.

Until next time: Always keep a handgun under your pillow and well hidden, in case a fat drunk magical pedophile is prancing around your kitchen, and staring at your sleeping children.

Merry Christmas