STFU Fridays: Seasons Greetings, Faithful Blog Followers!

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


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!

Countdown to Thanksgiving Day 2: Teaching With Turkey

Sometimes I wonder how – as Americans – we can pride ourselves on education and history, and yet at the same time completely ignore facts. You can say this for just about anything we deal with in American culture – politics, medicine, social norms. But for now let’s stick to the genocide of the Native Americans.

When Thanksgiving comes, we all do the usual traditions. We dress our kids up in little pilgrim and Indian hats. We teach them to be thankful for their iPhone5s. We tell them that they are unAmerican if they do not eat three times their recommended caloric intake for the day. We dress them in warm clothes to sit outside the Beanie Baby Outlet overnight to get Black Friday deals come the next morning.

But we just totally gloss over the genocide of the Native Americans that the early settlers – without a doubt – committed.

I know, I know – I’m such a Debbie Downer. How dare I talk about something the American people did in a negative vein? How dare I use terms like genocide to describe the annihilation and displacement of an entire nation of people. They wanted to be murdered, cheated, and stolen from, right? It was totally fair to give them blankets covered in small pox to stay warm!

OK, I’m getting off on a little tangent; let me get back to the point. So I plan on teaching this year through turkey. Specifically, when I cook my grandiose Thanksgiving meal, I’ll be labeling everything much like I did at our Thanksgiving party the other night. Now the other night I did normal titles. BLT bites. Turkey meatballs in cranberry sauce. Moroccan vanilla bean cupcakes crusted in sea salt and coated with a hint of caramel icing (we Californians like our adjectives when describing our food).

But Thursday, I’m going with history. Here’s what’s on the menu:

Steal My Land Starters

This will be your typical tray of olives and classic spinach and artichoke dip, with slices of baguette for spreading. But instead of thinking about the calories, we’ll be engaging in discussion on just what it meant for the settlers to steal the land from the Native Americans.

Massacre Mashed Side Dishes

The first massacre ordered of the Native Americans was in 1637, of the Pequot people. What is particularly sad about this is that the settlers very much depended on the help of the Native Americans in those earliest years for survival. So as we shovel mounds of butter and saturated fat-filled gravy all over our mashed potatoes; groan as we wallow in our corn souffle and mashy green bean casserole, we’ll be discussing just how a friendly gesture on the part of the Native Americans was all for naught in the end.

The Truth Hurts Turkey and Ham

I’m making both turkey and ham this year, but it will not be coming without a lesson. Interestingly enough, Thanksgiving was a tradition that the Native Americans taught the earliest settlers. Rather than a feast of excessive adjectives covered in asiago cheese and animal fats that were not even around the continent yet, the Natives celebrated their harvests with these Thanksgiving feasts, consisting mostly of what they had grown and hunted. And it wasn’t just a once a year thing in November; it was regularly and frequently through the course of the harvest season.

“Ironic” how we murdered and sequestered all of them; yet, still claim their tradition for our own. But far be it for me to discuss the truth. That would hurt.

Small Pox Pie

I’m making a classic pumpkin pie and that’s it for the desserts here. Then after my father heads home to watch football, we are heading over to the in-law’s for more desserts. So the only thing I will be serving is small pox pie.

No, my pie will not actually contain small pox; but it will be representative of perhaps the most aggregious of acts on the part of the European settlers (and there were many). At a certain point in the American Indian Wars, the settlers knew that the Native Americans had advantages over them – they were used to the climate; they understood the terrain of the land. What the Native Americans did not have, though, was an immunity to Western disease, small pox in particular.

So what did those lilly-livered fucktards do? They wrapped their blankets around people sick with small pox, then had people who were more immune to the disease take them to the Native Americans as an “offering.” Badabing, badabang – an entire sector of people were wiped out. Pretty fucked up if you ask me.

So I know this is grim. And I am aware that I’ve now created a downtrodden tone going into your Thanksgiving feast this Thursday. I’m sure many of you will unfollow me or call me unAmerican. But as you faithful blog followers eat your food and drink your drink; as you line up at that Beanie Baby Outlet, it’s OK to accept the facts and take a moment to respect the great loss of an entire nation of people. It isn’t unAmerican to accept education and history for what it is. After all, isn’t that what we pride ourselves on?