Monday, November 26, 2012

"I Usually Say 'Happy Holidays,'" By Jesus Christ

Honestly? It's just a matter of politeness. Some people don't celebrate my birthday, and I try not to make anyone feel uncomfortable about it. I'm like that.

Plus, there are - and I am not exaggerating - a lot of Jewish people in my family. I spent my whole life with them, and yeah, they don't really approve of my career as the Messiah. But families are always like that. You think I want folks celebrating my birthday by taking an entire month to turn America into a sparkly, glowing Gentilepalooza, and making everyone I'm related to feel isolated and weird? Seriously, what kind of massive douche would that make me? If your idea of celebrating my season is making an elderly Wal-Mart greeter offend a few hundred cousins of mine, you just have no idea who I am or what I want.

"Happy holidays," is sincere, accurate, and warm-hearted. What's wrong with it? If you know the other guy worships me, go ahead, wish him a Merry Christmas. Get crazy with the eggnog. Go to midnight service. Stash a mini-manger in every room, if you like. But why would anyone want to put pressure on some big box store to make their signage more Christian? Like the reason I came down here was so I could get wall space at Target.

Look, none of this is really about celebrating me at all. It's to show that you're a member of a club, and that club has economic and political power. Well, leave me out of it. I was offered that sort of deal, you know. I had a whole conversation on top of a mountain with someone, and that's exactly what he put on the table. I turned it down. So should you.

Remember: It's my day, not Rupert Murdoch's. You don't want to end up where he's going.

A Message To Matt Drudge From An Adrenal Gland

It's not working, bro. The flashing sirens and big red letters. The horror stories about young people and minorities running wild, right below some crazy freak's banner ad for a video about how the whole country's about to collapse, and I'd better buy Glenn Beck's favorite brand of gold coins if I don't want to have to eat my own family. I watch it all now, and I don't even react. Nothing - not even a squirt of epinephrine. I'm sitting here as useless as an appendix. An appendix, Matt.

Used to be, I'd go over to your site, and the guys up in the cortex would just light me up with stimuli. The pituitary would be screaming at me like an air-traffic controller on crank:

"Have you seen this stuff in the Middle East? And these flash mobs everywhere... What the hell is going on?! Get to your basement now, because Obama and a gang of people who do not look like you one bit are about to bust in here!"

It was exhausting. I mean, I'm always up for some action. Elevating the heart rate is my whole thing. But you ruined it, Drudge. You've been telling me my whole world's going to end for more than a decade, and I look out my window... and the world's still there. Lately whenever I hear about some insane article on your site I just... I just can't get worked up about it any more.

It's not just me. It's others out there. You're losing the adrenal glands of America, Matt. And without them what do you have left? Are you going to cater to the higher brain functions? I don't think so, man. You, my friend, are a brainstem-n-below kind of guy. Always were.

You need to stop posting stories that turn out to be ridiculous. Stop acting like every day is the End. You're giving us all Apocalypse Fatigue. I know, I know - it's not just you. But if you don't shape up we're going to tune you out forever. Then what will you do? Switch to porn? Get a job writing for Hannity? You'll hate yourself. Even you don't want to sink that low.

Look, everyone in America loves to get their paranoid freakout on, now and again. If you take it down a notch, work a little smarter, you'll make it through this one. You're a survivor, Matt. You're going to be scaring the crap out of idiots for a good long while. I just know it.

From one primitive organ to another... Good luck.
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