xmas memories, volume one
Of course in the spirit of political correctness please disregard this blog entry if you are offended by such deep religious beliefs as the consumer driven holiday season known as Christmas. Modern man, doing his best at taking the 'Christ' out of 'Christ'mas. What I'd love to see though is all those so-called offended fuckers coming to work on the days they are so offended by. That'd be true conviction.
Well Xmas rolls on once again. The birth (or is it death) of Our Lord Santa and his holy Reindeer. The holy Trinty + nine four legged future-gluesticks. The memories come flooding back (or is that forward?). Two of them (memories I mean, not reindeer) came front-and-centre first when I thought about it for two seconds. That's two seconds longer than I usually devote to bloggery conception.
Memory one: the guilt.
This was back when I we lucky enough to have parents who conned me into believing in a fat red man who got his kicks handing out shit for free, that usually cost a packet, and all for the price of carrying on all year in your usual fashion. The good years. Pre-rent and bills years. Ahh. Anyways, here I was one early Christmas morn-read 3am-and upon finding a sack full'o'goodness at the end of my bed, proceeded to tear paper away from treat. As I handled one of the gifts (i remember it perfectly, it was a solo-sand skiff from the Star Wars film Return of the Jedi. Burnt into the brain.) my mum came into the room with a distraught look upon her face. Usually I waited until mum and dad had risen and we all opened the stuff together. Obviously there would be joy in seeing your child's reaction to the sack'o'fun. Well thanks to my lack of thought I'd disappointed my mum. Again. I still remember the sinking feeling. I still carry that sack of guilt. I keep it in one of the smaller pieces of baggage I carry through life.
Memory two: the imbeciles.
This is not so much something that happened to me but something I was told. It's stuck in my brain as a symbol of why we deserve to die from comet strike as a species.
My friend Blake's old man is a priest. Anglican, so put the thoughts you were thinking back where they were and save 'em for the next Catholic scandal. He's a true legend, in fact he's one of the only reasons I give religion any time of day. A man who works his arse off day in and out for others. One of the many things he organises each year is a Christmas Carol night in the local park. Please note, this is a priest organising a Christmas Carol night on behalf of the Anglican Church in the local park for Christmas. Clear? Good. Well a few years ago he got a few letters of complaint. It seems a few people who went to the Christmas Carols at the local park for Christmas (put on by the Anglican Church) had a few problems with the amount of Religious matter during the night. The fact there was any was a problem. Apprently there should'nt have been any religion that night. it's gold. Absolute gold. And these same fuckers are breeding and teaching young future-unemployed of Australia. Scarey really when you think about it and man, i have thought about it.
quote for the day:
"A lot of Christians wear crosses around their necks. Do you think when Jesus comes back he ever wants to see a fuckin' cross? It's kind of like going up to Jackie Onassis with a rifle pendant on."
- Bill Hicks (1961 - 1994)
Well Xmas rolls on once again. The birth (or is it death) of Our Lord Santa and his holy Reindeer. The holy Trinty + nine four legged future-gluesticks. The memories come flooding back (or is that forward?). Two of them (memories I mean, not reindeer) came front-and-centre first when I thought about it for two seconds. That's two seconds longer than I usually devote to bloggery conception.
Memory one: the guilt.
This was back when I we lucky enough to have parents who conned me into believing in a fat red man who got his kicks handing out shit for free, that usually cost a packet, and all for the price of carrying on all year in your usual fashion. The good years. Pre-rent and bills years. Ahh. Anyways, here I was one early Christmas morn-read 3am-and upon finding a sack full'o'goodness at the end of my bed, proceeded to tear paper away from treat. As I handled one of the gifts (i remember it perfectly, it was a solo-sand skiff from the Star Wars film Return of the Jedi. Burnt into the brain.) my mum came into the room with a distraught look upon her face. Usually I waited until mum and dad had risen and we all opened the stuff together. Obviously there would be joy in seeing your child's reaction to the sack'o'fun. Well thanks to my lack of thought I'd disappointed my mum. Again. I still remember the sinking feeling. I still carry that sack of guilt. I keep it in one of the smaller pieces of baggage I carry through life.
Memory two: the imbeciles.
This is not so much something that happened to me but something I was told. It's stuck in my brain as a symbol of why we deserve to die from comet strike as a species.
My friend Blake's old man is a priest. Anglican, so put the thoughts you were thinking back where they were and save 'em for the next Catholic scandal. He's a true legend, in fact he's one of the only reasons I give religion any time of day. A man who works his arse off day in and out for others. One of the many things he organises each year is a Christmas Carol night in the local park. Please note, this is a priest organising a Christmas Carol night on behalf of the Anglican Church in the local park for Christmas. Clear? Good. Well a few years ago he got a few letters of complaint. It seems a few people who went to the Christmas Carols at the local park for Christmas (put on by the Anglican Church) had a few problems with the amount of Religious matter during the night. The fact there was any was a problem. Apprently there should'nt have been any religion that night. it's gold. Absolute gold. And these same fuckers are breeding and teaching young future-unemployed of Australia. Scarey really when you think about it and man, i have thought about it.
quote for the day:
"A lot of Christians wear crosses around their necks. Do you think when Jesus comes back he ever wants to see a fuckin' cross? It's kind of like going up to Jackie Onassis with a rifle pendant on."
- Bill Hicks (1961 - 1994)
posted by brent c. airey at 3:02 PM
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