>>> Casual Misanthropy

By staff writer JD Rebello
December 19, 2004

Seinfeld invented Festivus.

Jesus invented Christmas.
Dustin Hoffman invented Chanukah.
Wesley Snipes invented Kwanzaa.
And today, my faithful readers (thanks bubble boys and bubble girls), I present to you, a new holiday: St. Rebello's Day.


Umm, I needed a subject for my column. Duh.

Dates of Observance

The actual date for St. Rebello's Day is December 26th, otherwise known as Angry Middle-Aged Women Returning Shit Day. I hate that day. My mom drags me back to the mall which has roughly 182,456 people in it to return that cat hair scarf Auntie Pauletta bought in between playing grab-ass with sailors in a North Dakota bar. Still with me?

So Dec. 26, instead of running through the GAP hearing the gay salesman spout all that: “Oooh, for your return, would you like a GAP Card instead? .5% off your first purchase!” No, bitch! Give me my cash now. I'm buying San Andreas! Comb your hair!


Now, while St. Rebello's Day will be celebrated on Dec. 26, preparation for said holiday will begin on Dec. 27 the previous year, only a few days before Christmas comes back in full swing. We will load CVS up with decorations, play Rebello carols, eat Rebello logs (go ahead, make your joke), and not get sick of it all and threaten to kill your family with a wooden spoon.


To hell with that holly-berry candle nonsense. That's womany shit. You want to celebrate a real holiday? Decorate your crib with empty Pabst cans and naked chicks. Don't even clean your house or do the dishes. Don't flush the toilet for the entire holiday season. And if some naysayer is all “Ooh, what's that smell?” You tell them it's your shit. Not potpourri. What a dumb word. Potpourri. My keyboard is now gayer having typed it.


There's like one good Christmas song and one good Chanukah song. Kwanzaa has like five, all by Dre. Word. Want to hear my holiday song? Too bad. Songs are stupid. And there's no room for stupidity on my holiday.

TV Specials

I'm tired of all those “Christmas might not happen…okay it's going to happen” specials. What about if your holiday's really going to bite the big one, and then it does. Like, say, I don't know, your man dumps you for your father. You get all uppity and poison their eggnog. Now you're serving 5-10 with some butch lady who looks like Rosie O'Donnell, and, wait, that IS Rosie O'Donnell. And she makes you father her retarded baby. Ho ho ho. That's why they call them “specials.”

A Time for Receiving

I've had it with that “It's not the receiving…” Maybe that holds true in prison, but in life, I want my gifts. Whenever someone buys something for me, I buy something cheaper for them. That way I turn a profit. I look at these fools paying holiday bills 'til March, and I'm thinking: “Haven't you ever taken a goddamn economics class?”

A Time for Family

There will be no family visits on my watch. On St. Rebello's Day, you sit alone in a room eating TV dinners and drinking beer by the bushel. Then you cry as the clock strikes 12. Then you punch yourself in the face until you pass out. Better than spending time with family? You bet your ass.

Happy Holidays from your friends at Casual Misanthropy!

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