It’s that time of year again, time for the annual (and last) installment of “Here’s Why These Christmas Songs Make No Sense.” If I cause you to like even one of these songs a little less, then Merry Christmas to me.
“Frost the Snowman”
I’m not sure if this song should be subtitled “Prelude to Child Molesting in G” or “Fuck Da Police, Vol. II.” I’ve been creeped out by this song for as long I can remember. A regular snowman is already creepier than a scarecrow, and scarecrows are creepy. But this one comes to life, then wants to lead me “down to the river”? And with a metaphorical “broomstick in his hand”? What are steps three and four, inserting said broomstick (yeah, right) into my ass before disposing of my mutilated carcass in said river?
Frosty also sends quite a lesson to impressionable children, that lesson being, “Ignore traffic cops … and get plastered by a bus when you cross against his instructions.” This tribute to the frozen pied piper of pedophilia should be banned from radio and played only at NAMBLA meetings.
“It Came Upon a Midnight Clear”
My only issue with this song is the title. In English, we like to put our adjectives before the noun. Placing it after the adjective after the noun it describes smacks of grandiloquence. It’s a “clear midnight,” bub. Other holiday classics don’t need this affect. We don’t sing “Night Silent” or “Christmas Blue” or “Winterland Wonder.” So to the writer of this song, I send out a “Holidays happy, you fuck pretentious.”
I hate this song because it’s nostalgia for something that never was. I grew up just four miles from a semi-major downtown area. I attended college in this same downtown. These two facts mean that I spent many a Christmas season waiting on buses across from a major department store. I never heard or saw one single silver bell. They’re a myth. I’m betting that downtown or even small town stores never had silver bells clanging and banging, because the stores’ goal is to lure customers, not drive them away with migraines. The only Christmas bells I know of are the gold-colored, ear-splitting variety rung by those Salvation Army pests, and as far as I know, no one has celebrated those in song.
“The 12 Days of Christmas”
Yeah, I know, this one is too easy to pick on. No one likes it, no one gets it, no one doesn’t change the radio station every time it comes on. What I hate about this song’s existence is that 37 different media outlets feel compelled to do a story on what these items would cost this year. This might be barely interesting if the twelve items were useful and practical. You know, like “12 pairs of dress socks, 11 tins of Altoids, ten sturdy t-shirts …” But who really cares how much a lord a-leaping goes for these days? In fact, with all the people being bought and sold, it sounds an awful lot like a page from the slave-trading days, and none of us wants to hear someone singing about the present day cost of “nine hale and hearty Negroes.”
“Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town”
Here’s another supposed classic that should come with a subtitle, this one being, “A Helpful Guide for Shitty Parents.” Many parents (barely) control their offspring by beating them over the head (unfortunately only in the figurative sense) with the threat of eternal fire and damnation if the kids do bad things and piss off that allegedly loving God they prattle on about. But any kid not raised on lead chips is going to figure out after ten months of this contradictory fairy tale that something doesn’t jibe. So for months 11 and 12, parents have to resort to the Santa threat.
Their last discipline resort amounts to, “Hey Junior, you keep up that bullshit, and that fat old whiskered guy isn’t going to bring you all that shit we … I mean ‘he’ buys your affection and compliance with every year. So you better not pout, you better not cry, you better cut the shit …”
That part of the song always kills me. The line “I’m telling you why!” implies that the little shitbird of a kid has the balls to ask his parents “Why?” Instead of “I’m telling you why,” the next sound heard in this dreck should have been, “Don’t you ever ask me ‘why’ again when I’m talking to you, goddamnit!” Now that would make a holiday classic.
“Baby, It’s Cold Outside”
I guess this is supposed to be a romantic song about the age-old game of boy-pursues-girl, but it sounds like the first stages of date rape to me. The girl in the song is obviously not interested in fucking and is standing at the door in her winter gear dying to leave the man’s house, ice, wind and snow be damned. The muscle-head in the wife-beater has his hand on the door preventing her exit. This song is chilling, not sexy. I’d bet my next 20 HoboTrashcan paychecks that a man wrote this song. And that man was a brutish bully who felt entitled to the pussy of any woman he ever talked to. I wish someone would pen a sequel to this little charmer of a song. They could call it, “Goddamn, It’s Hot in this Courtroom.”
“We Three Kings”
I was always taught that the truest and purist form of giving was to do so quietly and, if possible, anonymously, seeking no accolades or rewards for one’s generosity. I Guess this self-congratulating trio never learned that lesson. This threesome lauds not only their own generosity but also the travails they endured to deliver said gifts. Yeah fellas, those moors and fountains are a bitch. Next time, just quietly show up, drop off your useless shit and go home. Mary can then sell that myrrh and frankin-whatever at her next manger sale. How thoughtless can you guys be? They just had a baby in a barn and you’re bringing potpourri. How about you announce your grand entrance while bearing some Red Roof gift cards and a camel laden with Pampers?
I know, I know. With this attitude, I should find a lump of coal stuffed in my stocking on Christmas morning. But I’ll take that over a snowman’s broomstick stuffed somewhere else.
Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org.