Christmas Sucks

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
This story is about someone or something who has a very good reason for not liking Christmas.

Submitted: December 05, 2013

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Submitted: December 05, 2013




Christmas sucks. I hate it. No, I’m not Jewish or an atheist or a Muslim. And no, I don’t celebrate Festivus. Sure, I think the fat guy in the red suit is a douche bag and his red nosed reindeer is as lame as they come. But, those are not the reasons I despise Christmas. I hate Christmas because, well, because I am a Douglas Fir – AKA a Christmas Tree. Eleven months of the year we’re just regular trees going about our business. But as soon as December hits, ta-da, we’re Christmas trees. WTF.

Every single year I watch as my loved ones get ripped from the earth and dragged across the muddy ground of a Christmas tree farm. I never even get to say goodbye. It’s just, here today, gone tomorrow. Now, obviously, I am still in the ground or I wouldn’t be talking to you, but horror stories make their way to us “lucky” ones. Well, lucky is a relative term. See, I was fortunate enough to be born with two trunks. That means I can’t stand up properly in one your human tree stands and therefore I’m passed over every year. Yay, birth defects.

Last year alone I watched jackass after jackass trudge through the snow and the mud with one of those rinky-dink, bow and arrow shaped saws, with a bratty little kid or two in tow. It’s a little known fact that trees do have ears and I can hear my friends and family cry out in pain as that dull ass saw begins tearing through their bodies. Without fail, the dad always wants his son to give sawing a try. “It’ll make a man out of you he says.” I can only look on in sheer terror as this mouth breathing 12 year old goes to town on one my cousins. The worst is when a tree gets chopped down and then the dad opines, “it’s really not right. I think I saw a better one over there.” Are there any repercussions for this? Nope.

And from what I’ve heard, getting your body chopped in two is nothing compared to what happens next. First there’s the machine that shakes the living shit out of you. Then it’s on to the thing that wraps twine around your body, like an anaconda squeezing you to death. But, from what I’ve been told, the worst part is what happens when you get to the house of the ass hat that chopped you down. I’ve heard horror stories about being draped in lights, ornaments; icicles, and finally topped with a star. Sounds to me like the Grand Marshall of the pride parade, not a holiday tradition.

If I had the ability, or the power, I would rise up and get all my Douglas Fir friends to band together and put an end to this ruthless tradition. Bill O’Reilly and Sarah Palin are always pissing and moaning about there being a war on Christmas, well, you cantankerous old son of a bitch and borderline retarded hussy, if I had my druthers, there would be a war and I’d come out kicking ass.

But, we all know that’s not happening, so I’ll just have to stand idly by with my deformed trunks, watching my friends and family be chopped down, wrapped up and slammed on the top of a mini van, heading to the suburbs.




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