Electric Ice in The Christmas Light

I love Christmastime. Animatronic penguins sing carols to me while I purchase sweet chocolate effigies of St. Nick. Oversized inflatable snowglobes whir on my neighbor's lawn under the off-white glow of electric icicles. It is cold outside, so cold that trees are carried indoors for the season, decorated and doted upon. People complain that the holiday season starts too early, and that gaudy winter decorations should not be seen in the month of November. I don't know what's wrong with these people. Although the swift post-turkey tinsel ornamentation of all your favorite department stores is always a surprise, some people want to limit the early emergence. I guess there's nobility in delaying that special Christmas spice, which is probably just cinnamon, until the days actually leading up to the 25th, but it is also a terribly grinchy notion, made by grinchy people.

Christmastime is a season which extends precisely from the day after Thanksgiving to New Years, and even that's a concession on my part. Ideally it starts mid-November. Thanksgiving doesn't have any mascots besides Pilgrims and dead turkeys, thus allowing Santa to participate in any seasonal branding that he wants. People complain about the commercialization of Christmas. These people are either religionistas, adamant about celebrating their ancient Roman feast in quiet peace, or they are rather normal people who do not enjoy loud robotic Santa Clausitrons ho ho hoing with infrared accuracy as they pay for their groceries. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, even if it's the wrong opinion. Santa Clausitron, I salute you.

It's the season of giving and twinkle lights. Family visits and nonsensical arguments. You wonder why old ladies, old relatives, enjoy pinching the cheeks of youths. This sounds like a fictional cliche, but I have had pinched cheeks. I imagine they're testing the stringiness of the children for some cannibalistic stew, like gently squeezing a tomato, or sniffing a melon. How quickly I move from Christmas to cannibalism.

But I can tie it back together. Snapping the neck of my chocolate Santa, which is disappointingly hollow, I eat the little man's head and crumple the foil into the smallest ball that I can, and in a sudden proud burst of innovation, flick it at my brother. I plan on eating many more Santas.

Merry Christmas.