It's that time again.

Yes, boys and girls; it’s that time again.

It’s the time of the year when people start offering massive sacrifices to their gods: Visa, MasterCard, American Express, and many others. The legions of cattle move forward to buy their screeching hellions everything they don’t deserve or haven’t earned. The cries of “I want! I want! I want!” and “gimmegimmegimme” echo through the halls of sacred American temples like Macy’s, FAO Schwartz, and other bastions of American commercialism and consumerism.

It’s the time of the year for faux cheer, when people try to pretend that they’re filled with love for everyone they know – including those they absolutely despise throughout the rest of the year. It’s time to suck up to that old bat, Aunt Martha – you know, that bitter old wench who used to hurl obscenities and bricks at her family – and senile old Uncle Joe, who will soak his dentures in the gravy before the rest of the family arrives.

And it’s time for the carolers to clog up the streets singing the same old tired ass songs that make your teeth itch when you hear them. Bing Crosby gets brought back from the grave to sing “Winter Wonderland” once again. And again. And again. And again. And again, ad nauseam. Rudolph and Frosty make their annual appearance from the attics in which they usually reside so they can clutter up yard in even more tacky ass displays that are even less thought-out than Houston’s rail system.

Yes, boys and girls; it’s Christmas time.