National Nitwit

A National Nitwit Guest Editorial
By Nancy McMullen, Baltimore Housewife

Sorry, Tyler: No Hess Truck from Mommy this Year

Every year’s the same: I scrimp and save starting in January, and try to stretch every penny for my holiday fund while Carl and the kids blow their spare cash on pizza night and X-Box. And every year I try to get everyone the perfect gift—or in the case of the kids, several perfect gifts—and just as quickly as the wrapping paper flies off, and they mutter “awesome, thanks mom,” they’ve already moved on to the next present.

So fuck it. This year, everyone’s getting gift cards, even if it ruins our precious family traditions.

I’ve always believed that gift cards were best reserved for co-workers and distant relations; the sort of people you know well enough to guess where they shop, but not well enough to take a gamble and buy junk they already have. Take my brother-in-law Marcus, for example. He’s lived in Tampa for the past six years, and only calls around birthdays and holidays. I know the guy is a huge movie buff, but how the hell should I know if he’s already got The Bourne Ultimatum or not? Boom--$50 gift card for Best Buy, and I’m on to the next name on my list.

Well, that’s how I used to feel. But not any more. Last year, I spent close to $1200 on the kids, and what did they get me? They pooled their lavish allowances for a free facial at the local beauty parlor. That’s it. No new slippers, no John Grisham novel. And don’t even get me started on Carl…I have so many $99 diamond pendants that my jewelry box is stuffed tighter than a Thanksgiving turkey.

So fuck Carl, fuck the kids, and fuck you if you think I’m wasting another holiday season driving to the mall everyday after work like some goddamn slave. This year I’m buying a shoebox full of gift cards, so maybe the McMullens can get off their lazy asses and do their own shopping for once.

Labels: Christmas, gift cards, Shopping

Left: Short-lived holiday joy for at least one family

(Decatur, IL) The Pasuellos enjoyed one of their "best Christmases ever," according to family matriarch Patty.

"We must have spent over $8,000 on presents this year," she sighed. "Everything was fine until these credit card bills started rolling in. Now I think we have a pretty good idea what those Nazi concentration camp victims felt."

Patty and her husband Guillermo have undertaken what they describe as "drastic austerity measures" to balance the family budget after the holiday spending spree.

"I'm cooking nothing but meatloaf, Tuna Helper, and spaghetti for the next two months," vowed Patty, clipping coupons on grocery staples. "The kids call this place 'Auschwitz,' and they're probably accurate, but what else can we do?"

Left: Spaghetti now the dinner ration for two, sometimes three nights a week at the Passuelo "camp"

Guillermo - who the children have taken to calling Kapo for his strict rules - also set the nighttime thermostat at a never-before low of 62 degrees, said Patty.

"Some mornings it's almost like you can see your breath, but not quite," she said, pulling her sweater closed. "Now I know how those Jews must have felt on the cold Poland nights in those death camps - freezing, and never knowing when the sun would return. I tell you - what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

Labels: Auschwitz, belt tightening, Christmas

A Guest Editorial by Bruce Rogers, Vietnam War Purple Heart Recipient

Rogers taking comfort with a bronze statue

When I was a kid, man, I loved the holidays. They were the best time of year around my house, and I used to wake up at 5 a.m. on Christmas morning, tear down those steps, and wait patiently for my brothers and sisters to shuffle down with our parents so we could tear open our presents from Santa.

But my childhood was stolen from me by an evil succubus whore named Vietnam, and now the holidays only remind me of my dead buddies, blasted to smithereens in the hellish rice patties of Southeast Asia.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Bruce, Vietnam was over and done with over thirty years ago, can’t you just let it go and have some eggnog with the wife and grandkids?”

The answer is a resounding no, you commie fuck-head. Ever wake up to the sound of artillery fire on the day your Savior was born, and then celebrate that day by eating cold Spam and locusts? Didn’t think so. I bet your ass went to Yale on daddy’s dollar and now wants us to bring our troops home from this noble campaign we got over there in the sand dunes of Mortaritaville, right when the tide is about to turn on those towel-wearing scat-munchers.

Sometimes we would fry up the holiday Spam, when we could find a cheap-ass stove, or when we were shacking up with some diseased, slanty-eyed hooker in Saigon. Yeah. Some fucking holiday.

But I digress.

The holidays are a horrible time for any veteran. All we want to do is reflect and tell the story of our M-16 jamming right during the Tet Offensive for the 739th time, but even our relatives from out of town are more concerned with their new socks, Japanese electronics, and Britney-fucking-Spears.

So this year, when you’re trying on those new flannel pajamas, remember ol’ Bruce here. I shot countless women and children from long range so you could enjoy this goddamn holiday, and the least you could do is honor my dead buddies by lighting a candle. Or buying me a beer. After all, we deserve as much.

Labels: Christmas, holidays, Iraq war, Vietnam