The Eighth Day of Christmas

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a threat to go to the American Girl Place store. I’d rather jump out a fucking window. To the uninitiated, this is the intersection of all the reasons the terrorists hate us. Pointless American consumerism in it’s most vile form. I’ve yet to set one foot in this seventh circle of hell (I do believe that much like Dante’s “Inferno”, there is a sign above the door to American Girl Place which reads “Abandon Hope All Ye Men Who Enter Here”) but I’m aware of what transpires within. You, your daughter(s) and whatever wretches you’ve suckered into this macabre death march, buy exorbitantly priced dolls and then parade around as though the dolls are real humans. Go ahead and re-read that last sentence, we’ll wait. I’m not fucking with you, this is real life. Or real life pretending that fake life is real life. You actually buy outrageously priced meals and stage these dinners with the dolls attached to your table as though they might eat the food, burp, offer up witty political commentary, and excuse themselves to go take a dump. Then you take the dolls to go shopping for other dolls. You get the dolls’ hair done at a doll beauty salon. I shit you fucking not muchachos, this actually factually happens. They want me to subject myself to this sado masochistic charade? Jesus H Fuck, I don’t even sanction it–like I don’t want my kid to know of the existence of such a disgusting show of extravagance.

Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, an ex girlfriend’s sister’s in-laws were traveling to Chicago to have an American Girl Place birthday party for one of their daughters and her dolls. They had the audacity to request that I attend. Balls the size of coconuts to even ask. Hah, fucking laughable mein! How about this counter-offer: Ask me to attend the American Girl Place doll baby real-fake birthday party, but give me $1,000,000 dollars. I’ll take the million bucks and find the most famous modern artist in the world. I will pay that artist the $1,000,000 as commission to create in sculpture a 5-story tall plaster hand giving you all the middle finger to look at while you have your make-believe but actually happening and you paying money for it birthday party. Sound good? I was in my twenties at the time and it was a Saturday, for fuck’s sake. “Are you shitting me?” doesn’t even begin to convey how shitting me that I cannot believe you are. I did not politely decline so much as belligerently declare that not only would I not attend this sad, sordid affair, but I was taking it as a grave personal insult to be asked. In fact I made it a point to go and get drunk with some very unsavory friends while the acid-trip day dream was occurring at AGP to leave no doubt as to my feelings on the event. I’m sure my name was Mud that day within their party but I don’t care. Face was saved as far as I’m concerned.

Now back to present day and I’m the poor schmuck faced with the dilemma of taking my own nuts, resting them inside the door well of car, then slamming the door home as violently as possible, or being the asshole dad who flatly refuses to have this feminine capitalist manifesto forced upon my person. It is like being the last sailor off the submarine in Bangkok and by the time I hit the brothel the only two choices are a 300lb stenching whore with no teeth (maybe cool?), a glass eye and one leg or another sporting a five o’clock shadow and a pronounced Adam’s apple; either way I go is fraught with peril and in the end I’m hatin’ it. Why does it have to be this way? Can’t we immerse ourselves in some other line of dolls where the sole intent is not to lure people into their lair and mentally and financially rape the ever living shit out of them? I’ll endure days of imaginary tea parties at home with Sesame Street dolls before I spend 90 minutes in this house of horrors. Once you walk through the doors of American Girl Place you’ll never be the same man again. You might look the same but something inside of you dies and can never come back. This is the crossroads at which I stand. Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas! Pretty par for the course though when you consider the overall holiday season:

A dead car battery
A lone long pube on the gym shower wall
WHAM!’s “Last Christmas”
A Disney movie full of princesses
A simultaneously puking yet wild-as-shit toddler
A two-day hangover at age 35 and an
Arctic blast right up the ass



About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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