Tag Archives: Holidays

38 Years Later, We Revisit ‘Wonderful Christmastime’ and Yeah Never Mind It’s Still Garbage (The Loop / Golf Digest)

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The Loop / Golf Digest — “Wonderful Christmastime” is the worst of Christmas songs, but it makes up for it by also being the worst of all songs, the worst song ever written by a human, Beatle or otherwise, the worst melody, the worst synthesizer, the worst production, the worst Wings song, the worst pronunciation of the word “here,” the worst lyrics, the worst scent. I have never seen the cover of the 45, but I bet it f**ing sucks. “Wonderful Christmastime” is the most terrible song ever written by anyone, or anything, ever, including robots and gorillas and Puff Daddy and Courtney Love. No one likes “Wonderful Christmastime.” No one. Paul McCartney hates it. All of Paul McCartney’s wives hate it. Santa thinks it’s a joke. God is like, ” I did not bestow upon you the Breath of Life to dishonor me with this unMely dreck,” and I imagine He’s not real happy about “Ebony and Ivory” either.

This goes on for like 900 more words, sorry.

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Do you have any cards that play the Mexican Hat Dance? You do? VALENTINE’S IS SAVED!

More holidays should have Kung Fu Panda-themed cards.

GateHouse — If there is any place on Earth more bruisingly depressing than the Valentine’s Day card rack at Target on Feb. 12, I’ve yet to hear about it. OK, that’s not entirely true, I can think of plenty more depressing places, such as the offices of whoever has to do promotion for the “Chipmunks” movies and wherever Newt Gingrich goes to apply his pre-stump speech neck-grease, but at least the people shopping at Target have their own non-billionaire-provided money, now that I think about it, so I think Gingrich wins for most depressing? Winning! Aw, that’ll be a weird feeling for him.

What am I doing here on Feb. 12, you may ask, judgingly? Well,  usually I’m like weeks ahead of the Valentine’s situation, because I’m really super-thoughtful at all times, except this year, when I’m scraping together a Valentine plan with two kids, which is making the card selection process a lot more enjoyable and family-oriented and part of a bonding ha oh I’m just kidding it’s a miserable nightmare please tell me someone stashed burlap sacks full of painkillers in the “Get Well Soon” section or something.

But it’s not a nightmare because of the kids, who are being great, except the one who keeps drooling on my face. No, it’s a nightmare because of the desperate surfeit of miserable greeting card manufacturers.

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Count Chocula = Impossible to Buy in South Carolina. HALLOWEEN IS CANCELED.

Count Chocula is, needless to say, embroiled in a centuries-old feud with that shirtless werewolf cereal.

GateHouse — I have discovered two equally displeasing things about Halloween this year.

1. The neighbor down the road, the one on the corner at Sundew Court, which is like the least-evil name ever (she might as well live at Dew Drop Hug Soup Emotionally Supportive Boulevard) has produced a front-yard Halloween display of such breadth and creativity that frankly my fake tombstones (“Here Lies Doug M. Upp” — ka POW), cheesy blinking “Great Pumpkin” Linus and assortment of artfully sliced-up pumpkins looks like a cruel failure by comparison. The neighbor’s display occupies probably 2,500 square feet, likely required several meetings with the power company, includes what I’m sure were Army-sized rations of that cobwebby cotton stuff and is making the rest of us aspiring warlocks feel SUPER INADEQUATE. Thanks, Sundew Court. See if I include you in the next block party volleyball game.

2. The second, and obviously more important problem: I cannot buy Count Chocula anywhere remotely near my house, and/or Sundew Court.

I don’t want to minimize anyone’s problems. I know times are hard for everyone. Your boss is slicing back your hours and your bank is being a jerk, but frankly my problem is worse than any of yours multiplied by a fafillion, because none of you have, in the past week, driven around for a full afternoon stopping at five grocery stores in the futile hunt for a fictitious cocoa-based vampire who apparently IS NOT FOR SALE IN SOUTH CAROLINA, due to, I am sure, something Rush Limbaugh said once.

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