We're ready. Everyone is drunk, fists raised, steel clinking against steel. Santa Claaaaaauuuussss! Come out and plaaaaaayyyy!!!
When our crew rides on Christmas, it's gonna wish it had kept its head down like Arbor Day. When Santa drops into our house, he gets treated like those robbers from Home Alone. If he slides down our chimney, before his toes touch logs he's gonna feel a steel-toe boot to the dick.
Nothing says Christmas like claymores by the fireplace.
What's our beef with Christmas?
The fact that you even have to ask means you should call your health insurance company and warn them that they're about to run out of health insurance because you're going to use it all. Clearly, the holiday has become too commercialized -- if an alien landed on Earth today, he'd report back that Christmas was a celebration of Las Vegas-style blinking lights, angry drivers and gift cards. The soul is gone; it's not like the simple, down-home Christmases we remember from our childhoods in the late 1980s.
It's time for a new holiday, a simpler holiday.
A malt liquor holiday.