Stop the madness. I'm eight years old and I've been dragged here by my parents for the past six years and I can't take it anymore. Who made the rule kids have to like huge hot air balloons? I am so tired of looking awed. My neck hurts from staring up. I have to pee, I'm hungry, smelly people surround me. Truthfully, unless dad puts me on his shoulders, I can't see 90% of this damn parade.
My five year old brother loves this crap. I want to smack some sense into him. Doesn't he realize this is all about marketing? Everybody marching is pushing their brand. Hell, my third grade class is establishing a brand for our bake sale. It wouldn't be so agonizing if the balloons weren't so lame. Some of them barely get off the ground anyway. Then it's the same characters every year. Spiderman, Snoopy, Sponge Bob, Buzz Lightyear, who hasn't made a decent film in a decade, Kermit the Frog, whose last five movies bombed, Clumsy Smurf, and worst of all, this monstrosity created by Tim Burton simply called B. It has giant pancake white eyes with stitching and a crooked mouth. Looks like a demented baseball. The jet pack monkey will give kids nightmares.
Santa is a joke. He looks Norwegian. Mrs. Claus looks Italian. The elves are hot young women. What has any of this got to do with the holiday spirit?
Then of course we will head for some packed restaurant for dry turkey and watery mashed potatoes and God's punishment to man, Brussels sprouts. I will never do this to my kids. Neil Diamond on a float. Why don't they dig up Bing Crosby, who I understand made one good Christmas movie before croaking.
No comments:
Post a Comment