The real reason for the season

As our holy moly-ist holiday shows up in red slacks on a ramshackle wooden sled with feral flying beasts and a wispy white beard, I really thought it appropriate to throw a few words toward the menace, malice and majesty that is our mis-celebration of your lord and savior.
Yes, a mis-celebration because even if Jesus was really born, he was most likely born around April or March and some argue around six months after Passover. The early adopters of the Christian gunk thought it would be a peachy idea to piggyback our Pagan brethren and absorbed a few of their super sweet sinful ideas about celebrations.
Back when Babylon wasn’t a horrifying, constantly exploding area known as Iraq, those people willingly enjoyed the feast of the Son of Isis (Goddess of Nature) and just happened to celebrate this debauched occasion on … you guessed it — Dec. 25! Since then, vomitous partying, irresponsible eating and mindless gift-giving have been a winter tradition.
As I tap these words on my laptop in the wee hours of my birthday, I can only imagine that Santa is throwing S’Nick points my way toward a new Android Tablet (on general principle, if you have an iPad, kick yourself in the face) or something else technologically fancy on which I can beep-boop-bop my way toward pointless celebrity gossip satisfaction and online zombie killing.
Perhaps an Xbox 360 Kinect so I can forgo any restricting controllers and flail around my living room as only Jesus would have done in his tiny, dirt-floored carpenter’s shack.
How do I accept gifts on the most religious of holidays when I am a very vocal and vociferous agnostic/atheist (depending on what day it is) you ask?
Tradition. Though my daughter Samantha sometimes occupies a place in my heart I hold dear only for televangelists and smooshbags, I don’t feel the need to rob her of the pure joy that I had when I would sneak out of bed in the wee hours of Christmas Eve, much to the chagrin of my poor beleaguered parents. It was common knowledge that I liked to get a 3 a.m. preview of what gift Santa had brought and what fantastic little knick-knacks he’d left in my stocking.
None of that had anything to do with Jeebus or pointless religious overtones. It was about my family being together and enjoying a day of giving to each other.  
Until my brother Chris touched my Star Wars figurines and I felt a draconian sentence of death was the only appropriate solution.
In a time of ever-increasing separation of our populace, gather your friends and relatives and just enjoy the time you have to spend together. Our holidays are less and less about some archaic event that may or may not happened. They are about choosing to celebrate our time with one another.
But seriously, I want an Xbox. And if Chris touches my Boba Fett figurine one more time, I am seriously going to cut his head off with the soup ladle.
Rejoice!

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