Everyone in Real-America liked Christmas a lot, but Hitch, who lived just north of Real-America, did not. So he drank until ill and drank until iller, and spilled on his Christmas card from Phyllis Diller!
I had never before been a special fan of that great comedian Phyllis Diller, but she utterly won my heart this week by sending me an envelope that, when opened, contained a torn-off square of brown-bag paper of the kind suitable for latrine duty in an ill-run correctional facility. Duly unfurled, it carried a handwritten salutation reading as follows:
Times are hard
Here's your f******
I could not possibly improve on the sentiment, but I don't think it ought to depend on the current austerities. Isn't Christmas a moral and aesthetic nightmare whether or not the days are prosperous?
One of the wonderful things about Hitch is that he really has the sense of humor of, like, a slightly naughty 70-year-old. His Secret Santa would be wise to pony up for a volume of the Truly Tasteless Jokes series. (Also, breaking: Hitch found something a lady did funny!)
Hitch hates Christmas, because it's totalitarian. He can't even go to stores without hearing "the identical tinny, maddening, repetitive ululations" of Christmas. That's one thing he hates! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!
All we're getting at is, should your child share some crazy story about an unkempt Santa, reeking of Scotch, taking your tree back to the North Pole for repairs, alert the authorities immediately.