Consider my brain fried. I stepped into work yesterday and entered a Winter Wonderland. Not eight hours before, I was at a bar watching a Sexy Luigi make out with a Sexy Mario. My corporate department store transformed all the spooky decorations overnight and is now in full Christmas mode. This happened while I drunkenly watched two women make out, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that our society has somehow found a way to sexualize and eroticize two stereotyped video game brother plumbers.
Now I stand at my cashier counter, listening to the Band Aid song “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” and I take the title seriously. Do they know it’s Christmas? Do they really? Because they’ve skipped completely over Thanksgiving and its decorations and skipped right to the real moneymaking jackpot of the Christmas season. Two days ago, I watched a Giant Penguin fist fight a dude dressed as Zombie Steve Irwin, stingray stinger in chest and all. The fight began when Zombie Steve Irwin approached Giant Penguin and, with a half-decent Australian accent, began describing the origin of the penguin to anyone walking by. Penguin got mad and yelled something about how Zombie Steve Irwin’s costume was disrespectful and then Irwin gave Penguin a testicle exam “to see what kind of stones he’s got.”
Today, a customer complained about the music, telling me that it’s too early to play Christmas music and that I should turn it off. Because that’s something I’m able to do. It's too soon to be filled with "Christmas Spirit." Two nights ago, I watched as four Gingerbread Men sprinted down the block. A few hours later, I saw three of them still sprinting around and then one of them got hit by a taxi.
Yesterday, I heard Wings’ Wonderful Christmas Time five times during my shift. Based on the amount of shifts I have per week, and how many more days until Christmas, that means I will heard this ear-fuck of a song 195 more times. That’s a little over 12 hours. I hate Paul McCartney for doing this to me.
To think that by the end of Monday night, I had grown tired of watching Sexy Jesus hit on a Taco Bell Sauce Packet. I’d give anything to go back to that. Now all I have is dread as I count the days until stupid fucking SantaCon.