Happy Festivus, Funhouse Fans!
Since last week’s installment explored the concept of Purgatory, let me tell you a little about my own 9 year sojourn through Purgatory on Earth. I am speaking of Florida, of course. Back in 1998, on the heels of a break-up with a long-time girlfriend in New Jersey, I made the dimwitted decision to relocate to South Florida. Thus began the longest day of my life. It lasted precisely 78,840 hours and from what I’m told, the unfortunate denizens of the Sunshine State are still suffering through the same interminable day while I have mercifully returned to a standard 24 hour cycle. Nothing changes in Florida. The weather, the temperature, the god-awful drivers, the fact that even nature actually manages to be tacky — these things are constants.
When the holiday season rolls around in Florida, the only way to tell aside from looking at your calendar is that the ear-raping Jimmy Buffett songs emanating from every beachside bar and grill change from Margaritaville and Cheeseburger In Paradise to Mele Kalikimaka. Hardly an improvement considering that Jimmy Buffett really only wrote one fucking song in his entire career and just changed up the lyrics as the time of year demanded. And before anyone gets any ideas about defending their status as a lifelong “Parrothead”, let me stop you before it’s too late and say fuck you. Just don’t. Some things are best left unsaid, okay? Jimmy Buffett is a musical terrorist and if you don’t agree, that’s only because you’ve never lived in South Florida. Try living among the world’s largest assortment of drunken douchebags in Hawaiian shirts and Santa hats for a few years and then let me know how you feel the next time you hear the words “Nibblin’ on sponge cake, watching the sun bake” issuing from your radio.
I want to tell you about the most obscene Christmas display ever to invade my eyeballs. I was driving around a day or two before Christmas in some unfamiliar neighborhood and came across a fat, hairy behemoth of a man, Bermuda shorts riding precariously low so as to expose his chasm of an ass crack, sweat creating two large humid armpit orbs on his Gators T-shirt, trying to maneuver his lawn mower around the nativity scene in his front yard. Though I am not religious in any sense of the word, I must declare that this was the most nauseatingly blasphemous and inappropriate visual I’ve yet to experience in my 47 years on Earth. I still haven’t fully recovered and I fear I never will.
So Monday is Christmas and though this means very little to me, at least I can revel in the knowledge that I live in a place where winter is winter and summer is summer and nobody listens to Jimmy Buffett. Happy holidays, y’all. Here’s some Florida shit from Seinfeld: