Holiday Traditions
People often ask me how my family deals with major holidays. I usually distract these nosy parkers with the fake vomit I carry in my wallet for such occasions. But why not just come clean? I give you The Wilberforce-Packard Holiday Traditions (short form):
First of all, the W-Ps do not believe in the divinity of Christ, and we scarcely know what to make of Christmas. We do not believe that hamsters ought to run loose in the house, either - but that is a story for another time. For us, Christmas is a dismal time, though well-lit, and we celebrate with a luau of sorts, but without the food and dancing. As the sun sets on Christmas Eve we retire to our rooms and wait for the arrival of King Tut Jenkins, who steals quietly through the house, leaving a single Oscar Mayer wiener in each shoe. The next morning we eat the usual toast with jam, but we make a point of shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries first.
What's next? New Years Eve. We celebrated NYE last time it came round, though we do not make a habit of it. We know that every second inaugurates a New Year, and that every second can be split into infinite bits, each inaugurating a New Year of it's own. On New Years Eve, we try to discuss politics like adults; this year we spoke of social security reform until our crashing boredom forced us to organize knife-fights. We then used the knives to transform some of our holier jeans into cut-offs, but that was after the ball dropped.
Valentines Day. We ignore this day for the most part, though we make no effort to conceal our handguns.
4th of July. The W-Ps adore the 4th of July, especially the municipal fireworks display, which gives us the opportunity to stand outside in the rain at dusk while little puffs of light emanate from behind the cloud cover. Some years it does not rain, and we enjoy those years as well, though they give us fewer things to complain about on the ride home. On clear-skied 4ths, we often use the ride home to complain about our dry-cleaning bills or the cretins who don't appreciate the incense spewing from our two-stroke engine.
And we love Thanksgiving. The night before Thanksgiving we place cold cuts and sliced cheddar under our pillows so that we may begin eating the moment we come to consciousness. We eat all day and far into the evening. We are awakened days later by the police, who are called by our employers and neighbors to investigate our absence. "Nope, no murder-suicide this year," we inform them with great cheer. Though we tend to come very close. Last year Rafe lost an earlobe and Violet voluntarily swallowed a chop riddled with thumbtacks. And 2003 - that's when little Clive was buried alive in his "viking" ship. Yes, we do love Thanksgiving.
First of all, the W-Ps do not believe in the divinity of Christ, and we scarcely know what to make of Christmas. We do not believe that hamsters ought to run loose in the house, either - but that is a story for another time. For us, Christmas is a dismal time, though well-lit, and we celebrate with a luau of sorts, but without the food and dancing. As the sun sets on Christmas Eve we retire to our rooms and wait for the arrival of King Tut Jenkins, who steals quietly through the house, leaving a single Oscar Mayer wiener in each shoe. The next morning we eat the usual toast with jam, but we make a point of shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries first.
What's next? New Years Eve. We celebrated NYE last time it came round, though we do not make a habit of it. We know that every second inaugurates a New Year, and that every second can be split into infinite bits, each inaugurating a New Year of it's own. On New Years Eve, we try to discuss politics like adults; this year we spoke of social security reform until our crashing boredom forced us to organize knife-fights. We then used the knives to transform some of our holier jeans into cut-offs, but that was after the ball dropped.
Valentines Day. We ignore this day for the most part, though we make no effort to conceal our handguns.
4th of July. The W-Ps adore the 4th of July, especially the municipal fireworks display, which gives us the opportunity to stand outside in the rain at dusk while little puffs of light emanate from behind the cloud cover. Some years it does not rain, and we enjoy those years as well, though they give us fewer things to complain about on the ride home. On clear-skied 4ths, we often use the ride home to complain about our dry-cleaning bills or the cretins who don't appreciate the incense spewing from our two-stroke engine.
And we love Thanksgiving. The night before Thanksgiving we place cold cuts and sliced cheddar under our pillows so that we may begin eating the moment we come to consciousness. We eat all day and far into the evening. We are awakened days later by the police, who are called by our employers and neighbors to investigate our absence. "Nope, no murder-suicide this year," we inform them with great cheer. Though we tend to come very close. Last year Rafe lost an earlobe and Violet voluntarily swallowed a chop riddled with thumbtacks. And 2003 - that's when little Clive was buried alive in his "viking" ship. Yes, we do love Thanksgiving.
3 Comments:
Around the Bird household, the holiday event is our Easter kegger.
And now, off for that reconstructive surgery...
May Day is nice, when the little knee-biters wearing their Halloween costumes dance around the Oscar Mayer weenie pole, provided they're Christians.
Rafe, poor Rafe. Such misfortune grieves me so. But Violet, foolish Violet, I feel little sympathy for that feckless oik.
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