Archive - Nov 18, 2008

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Not Even Thanksgiving

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Memo to Blank Blank Family Blank: TOO SOON.

It's bad enough that I have to walk by tinsel in Target before Halloween, but seriously. Wildmon? Dobson? Could we just reach an agreement to start Crazy Bigoted Christmas Season until after Thanksgiving? I remember the good old days, when the calendar was the calendar. October was for bitching about Satanists handing out razor blades in Zagnut bars. November was for bemoaning how multiculturalism and all that "genocide" talk ruined the simple story of Red Indians sharing turkey with their new white gods, and December was for the accumulated Christmas bullshit.

But no more! Donald Wildmon's American Family Association has started selling Christmas decorations already through its online store, and there's one in particular that really puts the American Association in "American Family Association". While I'm never one to use a picture when a thousand words will suffice, ACTUAL PHOTO TIME!

For reference, since they didn't put a Klansman standing next to it to show scale, this puppy is five-and-a-half feet tall. Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, how could anyone design what clearly looks like a giant flaming cross and sell it as a Christmas decoration? Well, that's not how stupid people work. Stupid people don't look at this and see a flaming cross. They just look at it and have a warm, familiar glow in their hearts as they remember a simpler time when states had rights. And they'll call you a racist for thinking it looks like what it looks like.

So just keep that in mind next year, if you're thinking about calling the AFA out on their new offerings: Strange Fruitcake, their "Peculiar Instant Potion" mulled cider mix, or, when January rolls around, their 40% off clearance sale, in which all regularly priced merchandise counts as 3/5 of it's normal value.

Over at Focus on the Family, they don't care what specific insanely racist merchandise you buy, as long as the cashier wishes you a "Merry Christmas" when you check out. Yes, the Fake War on The Fake War On Christmas is kicking into high gear yet again, and I, for one, am wondering why it's taking so long. I understand that it takes God's army of pure souls decades to vanquish the forces of the cursed abortion industry. I can see where they'd have a tough time turning away the advances of the insidious, coordinated, and tactically well-hung homosexualist agenda.

But for fuck's sake, they're fighting a bunch of cashiers. Assistant floor managers at a bare minimum. And while I know a few cashiers that could beat your ass sideways if you look at them funny, most of them are simple folk who will repeat the last thing they were told to say until their shift is over and they get to go home. They're practically Christians already.

But apparently the arrayed forces of America's checkout clerks are too much for the right-wing evangelical movement to handle, because it's yet another year where we have to be told that Banana Republic and Old Navy have "apparently abandoned Christmas", while Barnes and Noble and Borders have "marginalized" Christmas. I certainly hope, in these tough economic times, those two massive chain bookstores can weather the massive dropoff in sales of Left Behind paperback gift sets and Thomas Kincaid 18-month calendars.

Maybe Christians should just do what they've done with music, movies, cable networks, and video games and just have their own stores for everything. Have Northwestern Bookstores remove one of their eight aisles of ugly-ass angel statues, and use it to stock tampons, 14-inch TVs with built-in DVD players, knockoff Barbie dolls, generic brand aspirin, God Wheels imitation Matchbox cars, and vodka. That should take care of 90% of the average fundie's gift-giving and personal needs shopping, and they don't have to ever worry about a Target employee disrespecting their religion by not automatically assuming they practice it.

And the rest of us can have our shrunken, shitty-economy, secular-progressive commercial solstice holiday with a modicum of fucking peace and joy.