All I Want for Christmas

Is for you to shut the fuck up.

I like Christmas music. I honestly, actually, truthfully do. I don't mind at all when a couple of the local stations fire up ye olde carols in the middle of November and don't stop until Christmas evening. I'm fine with it.

I'm not fine with the fact that the programming manager at the local station doesn't realize that more than five Christmas songs exist. Yes, I, too, love me some Trans-Siberian Carol of the Bells. I don't love it seven times an hour. I don't love Dan Fogelberg's Same Auld Lang Syne at all. Well, maybe once, but that's only to remind me how much I don't like it.

And, please, Baby It's Cold Outside is a Date Rape song, not a Christmas song. She wants to go home, and Dino slips something in her drink. She finds it hard to resist. When Dean's saying "it's cold outside", he means his dick is cold outside of his pants.

But...but...if he's singing it to Zooey Deschanel...well...I totally understand.

I just wish--my one, true holiday wish, Santa--is for these radio people to understand that there's more Christmas music than the same ten songs that they play over and over and over and over again. Dean Martin is great, when he's not drunk and/or trying to slip a little something something into baby's drink, or ass, or both. Frank Sinatra has more than just one song. And while I do enjoy the smooth jazz stylings of the Merry Christmas Charlie Brown soundtrack, it gets old. Fast. Especially when it's on repeat.

You guys ever hear of the Binger, Bing Crosby? He's like Dean Martin, except not drunk all the time and--as far as I know--doesn't try to drug some young woman into a "white Christmas" and his "holiday inn", if you know what I'm saying. If you don't, well, you need to catch up on your classic Christmas movies. Commie. Also, what the hell? Barenaked Ladies made one helluva Christmas album a few years ago, with new songs and traditional. And it's awesome. Try throwing that in every once in a while instead of another rendition of Frosty the Snowman.

The one, however, that galls me the most is Mariah Carey. *shudders visibly*

It seems every commercial break, those slow, stupid notes are picked out on a synthesized keyboard and she starts in with her bad porn moaning. I scream. I curse. I switch the channel to the other Christmas station, only to catch the ass-end of "All I Want for Christmas Is You". It's time to go Oedipus on my earholes.

I finally shut the radio off in the car the other day. I only listen to the Christmas music now when I'm driving with the kids somewhere. Otherwise, I have audiobooks that I listen to, and some of the subject material is a little...coarse...for their tender ears. That same day I stomped into the house after enduring Mariah Carey three times in the span of an hour's drive. I had had enough. My nerves were shot. My ears were bleeding. There wasn't enough alcohol in the house.

Trying to escape the merry jolliness of the holiday, I went to the kitchen to start making dinner. My kids were flipping through the stations on the television and turned to Nickelodeon. I stepped into the room for a second to ask a favor of one of them.

What should greet me, but Miranda Cosgrove singing..."All I Want for Christmas Is You". I fell to the floor in the fetal position and wept. Openly. My daughter had the kind grace to change the channel.

You know who Miranda Cosgrove is, right? She's the "star" of Nickelodeon's tween show, "iCarly". Personally, I don't watch "iCarly". The judge was pretty specific in his ruling about that. *shifty-eyed* He also said I couldn't really discuss it openly. *polite cough*

In what I assume is Nickelodeon's answer to Demi Lovato, Miranda Cosgrove also sings. Naturally, she decided it was imperative that she pollute my airwaves with another rendering of that abortion of Christmas music. And while I'm sure she's a fine singer and all, I just wish that she had chosen...well, anything else.

So, basically, all I want for Christmas is for that fucking song to die. To go away. To disappear and never be heard from again.

Like the chick that Dino slipped the mickey to shortly before realizing he had overdosed her and that someone had better help him move this fucking body else there would be hell to pay. And while you're at it, freshen his martini. It is Christmas after all.