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Mr. Wrong

Thanks But No Thanks

Emily Flake

By Joe MacLeod | Posted 11/29/2006

Last week was Thanksgiving here in the United States of America, and if I had a column that ran every week insteada this every other week deal I got now, I bet I woulda made a list of Thankful things or something along those lines of "thought" as a "topic," if you will. Look, I am certainly Thankful for many things, sure, man, like having a (every-other-week) column for to stuff with the breadcrumbs of my brainpan, even if it is only every-to-the-other-week, as opposed to all these other effing columns all over the place that go off on the weekly, but like I said, I'm all about the Thanks. I'm even almost thinking about changing the name of the column to "Mr. Thanks," seriously, that's how serious I am about this thanking very much, so you're welcome, OK?

OK, now I can start my column for this everyother week, and it goes a little something like this, as in: Last week was Thanksgiving, my turkeys, and that means now is the beginning of the Season of Irritation and Pressure, right? Bad Tidings, man, for reals. You know what I mean, and I don't care if you pray to Santa Claus or not, my little holly-jolly, you're gonna get a contact-vibe off all these crazy-ass mofos scurrying around like starving elves on a reindeer carcass, trying to Buy Stuff and having their Holiday Plans and whatever, and I'm already sick of it, and first off on my No Thanks list is enough already with this "Secret Santa" crap, umkay?

First of all, why's it gotta be Secret? I want Unsecret Santa in my Office Space, get it? I want an APB out on my Santa; I want a mug shot and a full personality-profile test completed before I hand somebody a slip of paper outta my cubicle for the annual "Secret Santa" ritual that will soon be played out all over town in various stuffy little "break rooms" or "common areas" or what-have-you, all festooned with holiday crapola that's got last year's dust all over it and depressing tree ornaments made by dead employees or whatever, and then for the three weeks leading up to this shit, if you don't Play the Reindeer Game, it's always and invariably, "Hey, there, my jingle, who is your `Secret Santa?' Do you want to trade your `Secret Santa' for my `Secret Santa?'" And then it's, "Oh, my, you are not part of the collective `Secret Santa' activity? I'm so sorry, I guess you just didn't get around to putting in for the `Secret Santa?' No? You `got around to not getting around?' What does that mean? Oh, OK, I see, no, no, that's cool, sit down, please, I'm sorry, you're making me feel uncomfortable in my workplace environment now that I realize you are consciously not going to be part of the Office Culture by participating in the Organized Ritual Activity with All Your Co-Workers, as in like Everyone Else, OBEY, etc. . . . "

And then, look, I'm totally not putting what you should buy me on the "Secret Santa" slip, jeez, what's with the pressure, huh? I got enough going on around here, and you're the one who's supposed to be the Magical St. Santa Claus or whatever, so just give me a goddamn present, OK? I don't have time for this shit. And by the way, what the H-E-double-upside-down-candy-canes is with the switching of your "Secret Santa," huh? Who told you you could do that, Mister or Miz Spirit of Giving? Huh? You don't like your Santa Claus target? Well, fuck you and the reindeer you rode in on, seriously, nice fucking Holiday Cheer. Has anybody ever told you what Santa Claus thinks of you, my Lady or Gentleman Conditional-gifter? Hah? What kind of bullshit is that? Oh, wait, it's that deal where you want the Boss for your Santa Claus, isn't it? Jesus Christ, you make me sicker than I'm gonna be after I eat three of last year's candy canes off'n the office Xmas tree on an empty stomach, I swear.

It's like this: If you pull somebody's name for the "Secret Santa," then you goddamn jolly well better step up with both snow-boots and not trade that shit, man, seriously. "It Is Better to Give Than to Receive," right? Haven't you ever heard that? So when you pull my name for the "Secret Santa," you damn skippy better slide all the way down that chimney and stick something under my tree, got it? Close your eyes and Jingle All the Way, dammit. And no gift certificates, seriously, those are lame. H

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