who?
december twenty six | nine forty seven post meridiem
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The world is a funny place. A butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil and a sudden breeze blows up skirts in Paris. The baby Jesus gnaws some hay and 2,000 years later I'm drowning in Buffy merchandise. This was an unintended consequence of asking for the 3rd season DVD, not knowing what else to ask for, and not sharing many of my other interests with my parents (because they mostly include collecting used crack pipes fished out of leaf-choked drains and Strawberry Shortcake paint-by-numbers, as obsessively detailed elsewhere in this diary). I now have the wall calendar. And the magazine. And the Tales of the Slayer book of stories. And Keith Topping's unofficial episode guide (which is friggin awesome, actually). And a t-shirt transfer which says SLAYER in swirly skater lettering(?!). It's also, I'm sure, part of my parents' continued effort to steer me away from the homobibliosexuality they've been convinced is my fate since I was 15 ("Do you have to hold that book with such limp wrists?") "We know you like her," my dad said, as I unwrapped the calendar, my tongue lolling out of my mouth in horror, "And there are some good pictures in that one." Erm, ugh, dad... EWWWW. Stop with the implications already! Anyway, the irony being that Boofee is just about the only woman on that show I don't have a crush on. But trying to explain the superior sex appeal of delinquent brunette vampire slayers or female werewolf temptresses who sing in rock bands is, erm, weird and embarassing, so it's easier to let them think it's good ol' sunshiney SMG who gets me hot and bothered. I also received Wookie Pez.
But all of this is just awful commercialism, which distracts us from the true meaning of Christmas, which is love and compassion and selfless giving: you know, all those values Jesus taught us. Except without Jesus, since that's Patriarchy, and the catholic church is corrupt and protestant churches have tacky music and ugly carpets. Maybe we could make December 25 Buddha's birthday? Richard Gere comes down your chimney wearing nothing but a wooly beard and shoots varmints out of his anus for a handful of mixed nuts. Then Timmy and Betty Sue can come running downstairs at 4am to see what goodies lodged in their stockings. "Oooh, a ferret!" "Hey, Timmy got a badger! No fair!" Jolly Old St. Rick: he'll shoot your eye out, kid.