Christmas Snooze

Meerkats. Behind every conspiracy theory of the last two thousand years. Fucking meerkats.

Meerkats. Behind every conspiracy theory of the last two thousand years. Fucking meerkats.

Yes, I’m in a bit of a mood, and my internal editor who whispers “perhaps you could rephrase that in a more positive way, perhaps by deleting the word ‘motherfucker'” is AWOL until I get my strength back, and yes, I’ve been insulting people’s cats left and right (I don’t think they mind, actually, but HELLYEAH the people sure do, even though I’m pretty sure cats can’t read, except Abyssinians), but even so I’m not sure I have enough bitter gall within me (impacted or not) to do justice to the following video.

WARNING: repeated viewing could induce diabetes.

This makes Alvin and the Chipmunks sound like Pantera.

It makes Thomas Kinkade look like Anselm Kiefer.

This is the Christmas song for people who consider Enya “bad*ss.” And spell it that way.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is “The Christmas Shoes“. Apparently there’s also a tv special, and what they put in it to stretch it out to an hour is anyone’s guess, because basically what you’ve got here is dumbed-down O. Henry run through a White, Middle-Class American Who Admires Black People Especially Oprah and That Other One, Oh Yeah, the President, filter. Production values by Vaseline, Inc.

Yes, that sentence parses, by the way.

I suppose, now that I’ve pondered awhile and self-medicated with repeated viewings of Christmas in Hollis, I suppose I can find it in my worldview to picture a meaningful, even beneficent, role for this song: as an emetic, to bring sweet release and relief after a toxically-enthusiastic consumption of holiday treats. To that end, I present the lyrics, downloaded from (where else?) CowboyLyrics.com.

It was almost Christmas time
There I stood in another line
Trying to buy that last gift or two
Not really in the Christmas mood
Standing right in front of me
Was a little boy waiting anxiously
Pacing around like little boys do
And in his hands he held
A pair of shoes

And his clothes were worn and old
He was dirty from head to toe
And when it came his time to pay
I couldn’t believe what I heard him say

Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see, she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus, tonight.

He counted pennies for what seem like years
And cashier says son there’s not enough here
He searched his pockets franticly
And he turned and he looked at me
He said Momma made Christmas good at our house
Though most years she just did without
Tell me Sir
What am I gonna do?
Some how I’ve got to buy her these Christmas shoes

So I layed the money down
I just had to help him out
And I’ll never forget
The look on his face
When he said Momma’s gonna look so great.

Sir I wanna buy these shoes, for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see, she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful,
If Momma meets Jesus tonight.

I knew I caught a glimpse of heavens love as he thanked me and ran out.
I know that God had sent that little boy to remind me
What Christmas is all about

Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus tonight

I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus tonight

And she will, if I have anything to say about it.

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4 thoughts on “Christmas Snooze

  1. You crack me up, Rain. In spite of your warnings (or maybe intrigued by them), I started to watch the video. I couldn’t make it past the first refrain before the nausea kicked in and I had to stop. (I only wish I’d thought to look up “emetic” before trying.)

    Now I think I need to play some Clash or Sex Pistols to get that out of my head. Or even some Enya.

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