Admittedly, some of my disdain for Chri...sorry, the holidays, is personal, experiential. Some comes from the annual annoyance of Santa's jack-booted foot, repeatedly rammed up my ass by retailers. Who in the hell gives their spouse a Lexus for Christmas? And when did jewelry become "the most intimate gift?" I'm sure I can come up with something better.

Aversion Therapy
I am the 3rd of 2 children, conceived through a breach in whatever barrier existed between sperm and egg in 1962. Thus, my time with Santa was brief, ended by a single hammer purportedly made by elves, yet suspiciously decorated with "Sears" in 2" letters along the handle, and a 'forgotten' price tag stuck to the bottom.

The next few years were indeed joyful, simultaneously disabused of the spectre of an old, fat and bearded man who watched me as I slept, and emboldened by the certainty that I could be a perfect little shit all year, yet still get the goods.

But my freedom was brief, replaced by our new family tradition of watching me spike a 103 degree fever each year on Dec. 23rd. Tonsillitis: how I hate the word to this day. My parents, concerned about subjecting me to the safest and most common and surgical procedure in history (mythologized by promises of post-operative ice cream), decided the more humane approach was consigning me to a decade of sore throats, fevers, and projectile vomiting during Christmas 'vacation.'

Demon tonsillitis dispossessed me mid-way through high school, but by then I hated Christmas because I was a teenager, and hated everything on principle. After graduation, I went straight to college, where to say I adapted "poorly," would be rose-colored. So in Oct. of my freshman year, I told my parents I was quitting, only to be informed I couldn't come home unless I finished the semester. I stopped going to all but one class, did a lot of nothing, and earned myself a "B," "D," "F," and an "incomplete," the latter of which I assume after 20 years is now also an "F."

And so, I returned home to my 'proud' parents. Just in time for Christmas.

I needed a job that required no education and no skills, i.e. "retail." I sold shoes at the mall, ala Al Bundy, for several years until I was convinced homelessness had to be better and joined a rock band. But that's another post.

Everyone who has worked in retail, although they might deny it, hates Christmas. At the very least, they have a facial tic that starts acting up right after Thanksgiving and stops on Jan. 2nd.

• Perhaps you think it is frustrated shoppers, spreading their unique brand of vitriolic, sweaty holiday cheer. It is not.

• Or the extra hours and extra labor for crappy pay, amplified by having to park for work every day in the next county. It is not.

Here's what it is: It is Jose Feliciano, may he rot in hell someday.

Retail stores all have 'music' systems to 'entertain' their shoppers, cassettes or CDs of about an hour's worth of music that loop over and over all day. For 11 months of the year, this is a controllable annoyance for the employees, because most stores have about a dozen soundtracks they rotate.

But not during the hoildays. Most stores have "a christmas tape," two if they're lucky. But lucky is relative in this case, because even if there are two, both will contain "Feliz Navidad".

Contrary to popular legend, Jose Feliciano is not a man who overcame congenital glaucoma to bring joy to the world. He's blind, he's angry, and he worked his blind, angry ass off to create a plague more insidious than ebola: Feliz Navidad.

It sticks in your head like Clarice Starling's silence of the lambs. It gets in your brain matter and grows like the tumor I'll be getting on my tonsills some day.

And it's bad enough you can't stop yourself from repeating it over and over ad nauseum, but retail employees hear it over and over and over and over, until it becomes like the sound of a dentist's drill, punctuated by someone with a German accent asking "Is it safe?"

And when these poor employees leave work to do their own shopping, it follows them like an accidental fart in church. It's in the car, in all the other stores, and whistled by strangers. It's in electronic greeting cards, on web sites, and TV. And the thing that really makes you 'postal' is watching Anglo Saxons walk around the store with that smile on their narcotized faces, humming the Spanish parts, then bursting into song for "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas..."

So I hate friggin' Christmas. I can't handle all the peer-pressure to be happy. And I don't understand why we get suckered into making ourselves tired, miserable, broke, and sick by filling every free hour of every day to finish our elaborate preparations in time: to fulfill a vision of what those other fat, old men want Christmas to be; those people who prosper when we buy cheap crap made in China by inmates and children.

So here's my gift to you:

Feliz Navidad,
Feliz Navidad,
Feliz Navidad,
prospero ano y felicidad.

[Now, all the white folks!]

I wanna wish you a...

Hope it's stuck there 'til New Years. :-p