Heather Christena Schmidt

Seasons Greetings, and kiss my fucking ass that is!

There has been a lot of talk about Christmas letters lately. Blogs are talking about them. People are talking about them. My grandpa fell the other day and is in the hospital recuperating, and keeps whining that he won’t get his Christmas letter done in time now. Apparently the letter is the thing to do.

So I’m leaving my own letter on your doorstep, faithful blog followers. Only instead of being printed on flowery paper with all sorts of bullshit no one wants to hear about on it, my ol’ yule log of greetings is in a paper bag and lit on fire. Instead of talking about me, for this Shut the Fuck Up Friday I’m talking about you…

Your Christmas Letter Informed Me About All Of Your Perfect Childrens’ Achievements

I don’t give a fuck if your kid placed first in soccer for the eighth time. I don’t give a shit if your kid is an honor roll student. As far as I’m concerned, he/she is on the honor roll of my asshole. You know why I don’t care? Because everyone’s kid is awesome – whether they are on the honor roll or the fucking dean’s list of losers that will never make it past 8th grade. Stop comparing yourself through your kids to other people. It’s cool that you want to encourage them; I, myself, have been known to brag on occasion. But a lot of times you’re just making them feel like they have to live up to certain Christmas letter standards, or they are a total failure to you.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Christmas Card Included Oh-So-Unique Portraits of Your Beautiful Family

NOT!

The choice to not remove the huge wart/pimple/hair from your face prior to the photo shoot was probably the wrong one. And while your portraits were clearly of you guys, you do know that your photos look just like everyone else’s, right? The kids walking in between the parents, looking back at the camera. In sepia. The family playing in the field in jeans and matching denim shirts. The beach images of the you guys writing your holier-than-thou family crest in the sand. Seriously, people – get over yourselves. I appreciate seeing your kids, since chances are I’m too much of a dick to just get in the car and drive out to see them, but let’s not put on any heirs here either: that picture is going in the trash come December 26th, right along with everyone else’s. Save your money and just send a polaroid.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Verbal Diarrhea Informed Me Of All Your Hardships

Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ, do you people not understand that a Christmas letter is supposed to spread cheer? Like happy news? We received a letter in the mail last week that was six pages long; line after motherfucking line of sadness and hardship and “this person got laid off” and “these people’s house got foreclosed on.” Shit, by the end of the sixth page, I had taken two Valium and a shot of Canadian Club and considered driving myself off the pier in empathy.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Blatant Lying Made Me Realize You Are Delusional

Although by contrast, we received another letter that was all unicorns shitting rainbows, and babies puking glitter – it was just that perfect. Life is great! Life is wonderful! I took a dump last week and it came out in bricks of gold! It concluded with “nothing ever seems to go wrong for us these days,” which is sweet but for God’s sakes: (1) grow up, and (2) stop lying. Life sucks balls. You don’t have to drag us down with all your problems, but the least you could do is be a little more realistic and humble about any good things you do have.

Shut the Fuck Up

Your Medical Problems Were Your Christmas Letter’s Centerpiece

What is it with people and sharing all their medical dramas over their Christmas letters? Call me crazy, but I always thought I’d save the stories about my bleeding asshole and weird smelling tits for either my doctor, my husband, or my shaman (disclosure: I do not have a bleeding asshole or weird smelling tits … or a shaman … at least not yet).

My grandpa is the worst with these – his letters always detail his medical dramas and the problems he has making his bowels move if the Nebraska Cornhuskers aren’t doing well. And there was that one time my Trailer Trash Mom wrote a couple paragraphs in grandpa’s letter about her unpleasant discharge – that was a real crowd-pleaser.

Shut the Fuck Up

So seasons greetings, motherfuckers. Please keep your vaginal discharge and your honor roll students to yourself. As you write your Christmas letters this next week, just keep in mind that when in doubt: shut the fuck up!