It’s Christmas Eve, and you’d damn well better hope that you’ve been good this year.
Why is that? Well, I just got off the phone with Santa Claus. He’s doing well. He’s busy, of course, but things are goin’ his way. His stocks’re on the rise. He left that frumpy wife of his and snagged a lover more to his liking. And he’s decided to finally stop being so damn soft on those perennial residents of the Naughty List. Given what St. Nick has in store for this year’s crop of bad boys and girls, coal in the stocking is going to look like a walk in the park.
If you haven’t been good for goodness’ sake, Santa Claus is going to rock you with an atomic leg-drop.
There’s no way to know ahead of time whether you’ll be gettin’ a Furby or a beatdown from Santa. You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow morning — either you’ll wake up to open presents in your pajamas, or you’ll wake up with missing teeth and cracked ribs. But why don’t we share some ways to pass the time until then? Hell, this is the Monday Morning Commute, the very spot where we meet to discuss the various ways we’ll be entertaining ourselves.
After all, it’s easy to get bested by the ennui-daemons and work-overlords. If we don’t take the time to enjoy ourselves, we’ll die as nothing more than the miserable, boring wretches that the Man wants us to be. So let’s rebel! Our bosses don’t own our souls, and Santa may break our backs, but he can’t break our spirits!
If you’re an avid reader of my High 5s, and let’s face it, who isn’t, you’ll know I don’t like Christmas. People are angry. They are stressed out. They spend far too much money on gifts and over extend themselves. Its painful to watch. Now, that’s not to say I want to eradicate the holiday. I enjoyed the hell out of it when I was a kid, but now that I’m older I can see behind the curtain. Around this time TV stations start running the same holiday movies over and over and over and over. If I actually watched TV anymore it would be nerve racking. So here we go, my 5 favorite Christmas movies.
Here’s a grandmother holding it the fuck down to some dubstep on a Christmas morning. This video is eerily prescient of the sort of behavior I expect out of my Mom when she turns 94. Another thirty+ years of Brothers Omega corruption can only guarantee it.
Max Headroom is one of the most bizarre creations imported to American television in our lifetime. He poked his unholy prosthetic head onto Cinemax in 1986 by way of British TV and quickly began stuttering his way to stardom. Headroom (played by Matt Frewer – who portrayed Moloch in Watchmen) actually has a pretty sweet backstory. I barely remembered what he was all about, but after watching his awesome Christmas special I did some Wiki research. It’s like the best cyberpunk tale never written by William Gibson:
The film introduces Edison Carter (Matt Frewer), a television reporter trying to expose corruption and greed. In the movie, reporter Carter discovers that his employer, Network 23, has created a new form of subliminal advertising (termed “blip-verts”) that can be fatal to certain viewers.
While attempting to flee the network headquarters with proof, Edison suffers a serious head injury, caused by striking a low-clearance sign labeled “Max. Headroom”. Believing him killed, the network’s chief executive orders Bryce Lynch, an adolescent genius working as a scientist for Network 23, to digitally record Carter’s mind. The recording will then be used to create a computer-based replacement for Carter in order to hide his death.
It only gets b-b-better, folks, and I’ll tie this all into Christmas after the break!
There’re twelve days until Christmas, the holiday in which we celebrate the birth of a God by telling kids that if they’re assholes all year a fat burglar is going to put coal in their socks. Makes sense. Anyways, there are no doubt fools in our ranks who want the next eleven days to fly by so that they can collect their Christmas goodies. But to that, I say Bah humbug!
We are now in the thick of the best part of the holiday season. We’re close enough to the summit to actually begin enjoying the ascent, but don’t have to start thinking about the dreadful descent. The holidays are making out, baby, and with the shirts being taken off the post-coitus regret isn’t even a consideration.
So put on an ugly sweater, drink some eggnog, and grab the ass of the one who catches your eye.
And while you do that, let me tell you about my upcoming week. After all, Monday Morning Commute is my chance to tell you what I’ve got planned for the next few days. If you’re feeling bold, hit the comments and tell me what you’ll be doing.
Welcome to the Christmas Creep, you swine! It’s Omega Sinema’s celebration of the absolute worst in Christmas specials. I found some doozies to share with ya’ll, from childhood icons, to icons we’d rather forget, to utter shit from New Zealand that made me want to convert to Judaism so I would never even be put in the position of watching it again.
I decided to kick things off with probably the worst of the bunch. Get it over with, you know? Like tearing the duct tape off your girlfriend’s mouth following a night of passion. Right? Anyways, it’s pizza time in Hell: Christmas With the Turtles (1994).
Back in the day, us TMNT fans were loyal and the Turtle obsession teetered on the edge of religious obsession. We generally ignored the blatant ripoffs like Biker Mice From Mars and Street Sharks but always shelled out our allowance earnings for retarded figures like “Farmer Don.” We were forgiving of the third movie. We kept it green and we kept it in the sewer. What then, I ask, did we do to deserve this kick to the nuts? I love the Turtles and I love Christmas but fuck this:
…what. The hell. Was that? Why do they all talk like goodfellas but sing with a fake patois? And why won’t they stop smiling? They all look atrophied – like a bunch of green Amy Winehouses, which I think is the plural of Winehouse. God, I could go on and on nitpicking about the horrible production, but lemme tell you about the racy and thought-provoking plot for a minute.