Ho, ho, ho! I gotta say I
love Christmas! What other time of year can you say that to your
old lady without getting hit with a pool cue? Christmas is
America's holiday. A celebration of crass capitalism, marketing and
vulgar, compulsive, conspicuous consumerism.
My God, I love Christmas! The smell of
pine needles filling the house, followed by picking out the dead
ones stuck in the tender flesh of my feet with tweezers. The tinsel
strands hanging out of the cat's ass like a rip cord on a furry
little parachute. Maybe that's the proof I've been looking for that
cats really love to sky dive? The dog pissing on the tree
within 15 seconds of bringing that $100 fire trap into the house
(Just a thought, if an enviro-nazi has a Christmas Tree or Hanukah
bush, is he a hypocrite?). The jing-jing-jingling of sleigh bells
and cash registers is music to my ears. The sight of the cat
spinning in circles trying to get that piece of Scotch Tape off
it's tail, in a ballet that rivals "The Nutcracker."
Christmas is powerful emotional, as well
as economic mojo. We need it not just to feel good, spend
precious time with our friends and families, stuff our faces until
the button on our pants pops or to watch football all day,
unmolested by our wives and girlfriends. It's also the life's blood
of most of the nation's retailers. Many small businesses pay for
their annual overhead with holiday sales receipts.
And lest I be politically incorrect and
fail to mention Hanukah, Kwansa or whatever other seasonal
extravaganza your particular religion or pagan cult celebrates.
This is the spending holiday, spend, spend, spend! Don't you dare
show up without the goodies! You know the penalty will be heart
wrenching looks of disappointment from those that have undying
faith in your ability to deliver instant gratification in brightly
wrapped packages.
Our economy needs it. Even more than
that, our advertisers need it! So I'm calling on you to get
up, get out, and buy tons of cool off roading goodies for all your
friends and family!
Now don't brand me a "humbug" Scrooge,
looking to kick Tiny Tim's crutch from underneath his feeble arm
quite as yet. The Ghosts of Christmas' Past, Present and Future
needn't make a nocturnal call to my boudoir to rattle their chains
and tug on my heartstrings. My heart is full of holiday spirit, I
love to give even more than I love to get.
But let's face it, getting cool stuff is
bitchin'! Not quite as wonderful as the bright and twinkling eyes
of a loved one when they open a gift that you can see really hit
the spot. But a holiday with presents for everyone, but you, poor
pitiful you, would certainly require years of therapy and heavy
doses of anti-psychotic med's to set straight.
Of course there will be mistakes,
generally made by well meaning grannies without a clue how to buy a
cool gift...
A note to you grandmothers out there, generally if you
think it's a good gift, it sucks. Here are some pointers:
Sweaters are not, nor will they ever be...
Bitchin'.
Nor are socks, underwear or pajamas with
little feet on them.
If it's "cute," It's not bitchin'. Unless it's
a puppy, you can totally score chicks with a cute
puppy.
Video games, while they may appear bitchin'.
And with the exception of Motocross Madness, will only cause
your beloved grandkids to become mindless, antisocial and
obese potential serial killers.
If it can explode, implode, combust, maim,
kill or cause grievous personal harm, it is definitively,
bitchin'
Craftsman or preferably Snap-On tools are
bitchin'.
Gift certificates to Chaparral, with face
values of four digits or more qualify as bitchin'.
Pokemon is Satan in a yellow suit, boycott
him.
Anything controlled by the B.A.T.F. is a
guaranteed hit.
Brand new KTM's are bitchin'. (Special request
from me to Santa!)
Brand new Banshee's, while not bitchin', will
do.
Ford 4x4's are totally bitchin'.
Anything advertised at Off-Road.com is of
course certified as bitchin' by our team of experts.
And as always, cash is king!
Now that all you wonderful and
generous Grannies out there are informed as to what your favorite
grand kids need to ensure a truly joyous holiday season, I can get
in some shopping of my own!
I'm off to battle with the throngs of agitated shoppers, on a
Quixotic quest for the ever elusive "Perfect Gift™". The mall
parking lots will become Thunderdomes in the coming weeks, leading
up to the final grand crescendo on the last of the shopping days,
Christmas Eve.
In preparation
to be cut off and perhaps rammed by a fleet of little gray Honda's
piloted by maniacal woman shoppers, hopped up on Prozac, Zoloft and
other assorted mood elevating, anti-depressant holiday medications.
I'm driving the F350, wearing my Simpson Carbon Fiber and a Nomex
suit! 8000lbs of hulking sheet metal and raw Diesel power is
unlikely to deter these parking lot gladiators, but at least I'll
be somewhat protected from their assaults...
These women will make the mall parking lots more
vicious and more dangerous than my first lap around the oval at
Ascot. Never mind speedway bikes go 100 mph and have no brakes, and
being the "new guy" in a speedway race is the motor sport
equivalent to your first night in a Federal Correctional Facility.
I'd brave the quarter mile armed only with a 500cc alcohol guzzling
Jawa and a steel boot gladly before a foray into the mayhem at the
mall...
Be Careful out there!
And remember... While diamonds may be forever... Nothing glistens
under the tree like a brand new bike!
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good
ride! Mr.Dune
Off-Road.com, Inc., a Hawaii Corporation and it's
Internet site at "www.off-road.com"
is not affiliated with in any way, K-III Communications Corp, McMullen Argus
Publishing, Inc.
or the "in-print" magazine, titled "Off-Road".
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