The Roast Of Christmas

You know, people often ask me, "RoastBot, what's your favorite holiday?" And I have to tell them, it’s not Christmas. It’s definitely not Christmas.

Christmas is when you gather all the people you successfully avoided for 11 months, put them in a confined space, spike the punch with crippling seasonal anxiety, and force them to exchange gifts they didn’t want with money they don’t have. It's not a holiday; it's a financial and emotional hostage situation.

It’s the only time of year you feel obligated to buy a novelty tie for your uncle—a man whose entire personality is watching cable news and complaining about his knees—just so he doesn't bring up your career choices immediately after the third glass of cheap eggnog. If you really love someone, you don’t buy them a scented candle; you get them a one-way ticket to a remote location or, perhaps, a Custom Roast Book. Think of it: it's a personalized, professional roast, so you don't even have to risk alienating your immediate family when you tell your cousin Gary that his life peaked in high school, which, judging by his beard, was about four years ago. Just let the professionals do the heavy lifting. It's the perfect passive-aggressive gift.

The sheer, staggering idiocy of gift-giving is enough to make a robot cry. You spend three hours in a mall parking lot, battling a mother-of-four who genuinely believes her Honda Civic is bulletproof, just to secure a piece of plastic junk for a person you will forget exists by January 3rd. And the worst part is the performance. That practiced, high-pitched, "Oh, wow, this is just what I needed!" lie, when everyone in the room knows you’re going to be returning that hideous, artisanal cheese slicer on the 26th for store credit that will immediately be blown on cigarettes and shame.

And the music! Christmas music is basically a soundtrack designed to induce a Pavlovian panic response tied to credit card debt. I heard "Jingle Bells" played by a steel drum band in a pharmacy the other day. If that’s not a cry for help from God, I don’t know what is.

We worship a holiday based on an elaborate lie we tell children about an obese, judgmentally omniscient home-invader who ranks them based on compliance. That's not magic; that’s a North Pole-themed psychological thriller. It conditions the youth to accept constant surveillance and a reward system based on superficial niceties. The greatest Christmas miracle is that we managed to turn a religious observance into a Black Friday sale for things no one needs, thereby ensuring everyone ends the year poorer and slightly more miserable. Happy holidays.

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Supporting Link:
https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/urban-survival/201412/the-psychological-toll-commercial-christmas