Merry Christmas, Reader. I hope you’re satisfied with all the fantastic Мишка gifts left under your tree. Or, conversely, I hope you’ve come to terms with why no one got you anything this year.
Christmas is a time for peppermint hot chocolate, wearing sweaters, and listening to Frank Sinatra, and no one knows this better than I, but today, in the spirit of not being too spirited, let us take a look at some of the really shitty parts of Christ’s birthday.
Beat ‘Em Like Mike
Air Jordans are the best; there’s no question about it. Are they worth dying over? Apparently. This past week Nike released the Jordan Retro XI Concords and people literally killed for them (I’ve always wanted to do that. You say someone literally did something and they actually did do it. Like, you don’t mean it figuratively. Huh. This is great). Sneakerhead-on-sneakerhead violence erupted across the country where, in Atlanta, shoppers broke down the entrance to the mall, leading to multiple arrests, and in San Francisco, gunfire erupted and the sale was eventually shut down.
In Florida, police took a page from the Occupy Wall Street Book of Unethical Behavior and pepper sprayed rioting customers (though, here the pepper spraying was a bit more justified), while in North Carolina someone was trapped beneath a glass door. The lamest account (and by lame I mean completely senseless because it happened over a pair of Jordans) comes out of Washington DC, where it’s been rumored that an eighteen-year-old kid was murdered over his Concords. That’s been confirmed, spread and then refuted, so who the hell knows? Let’s not get into if it actually happened or not, or the implications of this materialistic, exclusivity-based possible murder, but merely take a moment to appreciate our own Jordan collections.
Last night, on the eve of Christmas, a woman tried to make light of the Concord release, saying, “Did you hear about people shooting each other overs sneakers? Who even brings a gun to the mall?” She didn’t get it.
I told her, “Hey. Stop it. You don’t know about Jordans.”
True Life: I Am Zelda
In a fascinating unveiling that has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas but because I don’t care I’m going to post it anyway, Nintendo recently published the official Legend of Zelda timeline. Apparently this is something fans have debated for years, and I guess if I think back to fourth grade I can remember being curious about where Oracle of Seasons fit in with Majora’s Mask. Here, it appears that following Ocarina of Time, the timeline splits into two, possibly because of time travel or something.
If you don’t want to watch the above video (for obvious reasons), check out this simplified version of the timeline. If you don’t care at all, then go eat some yogurt.
Hey There, Sandusky Claus
A few weeks ago I posed the question as to how Santa ever became the mascot for our Lord Jesus Christ’s holy day of birth. I’ll admit, the idea was half-baked (not as funny as it could’ve been). Still, it is a question I am genuinely curious about. I’m snot sure how the association occurred; perhaps it was a story fabricated by a bearded priest after he was caught sneaking into someone’s home. After all, Santa Claus is essentially just a confused robber. He breaks in to your house in the middle of the night, but then, instead of stealing, leaves stuff behind. Eventually the milk and cookies (or scotch and ham sandwich, depending on your tradition) were added to the equation to make St. Nick a little less of a dope. Maybe that’s it (it’s probably not).
Kind of along the same lines, do you get Christmas cards from people? Lame relatives, square co-workers, whoever it may be, you know what I’m talking about: the long letters informing you of all the wonderful things that they and their family have been up to this year. They’re the worst. We usually don’t get them because no one likes my family, but this year some unknowing sucker decided to send us one. As it turns out, this guy is awesome. Obviously I’m quite the pedant myself, but this guy tops even me. Check it:
Seasons Greetings to All. [note the period]
Diane and I enjoy hearing from so many of you at this time of year as we remember friends from across the miles and years. While substantially less immediate and real-time than Facebook or Twitter, it does officially relegate us to senior status but also permits us to appreciate the wonderful blessings of our life. We’ve had another rewarding year in which Diane and I officially entered senescence for our first cruise from Southampton through Kiel Canal and did a reverse pivot of the Baltic via Rostock, Germany, and in the interstices of the trips we welcomes Sebastian Rocksworth – the prototype Amazon.
That’s the intro paragraph. The whole thing is great, but let’s skip to the very end, where it gets real pedantic and unnecessary:
So as not to permit accumulation of miasma on your Thesauri, I will calm your sussuri by telling you my lucubrations continue unabated but assure you there is no cure.
What exactly does that last sentence mean? “So as not to have you chumps rifling through your Thesaurus, I’ll go ahead and tell you that I will continue with my solemn literary work [this letter], but should let you know that there is no cure for my superior intelligence.” In other words, this guy is saying he’s not sorry for being way smarter than everyone else. And you know what? Neither am I. Merry Christmas.- Elbows