I put my Christmas music on my iPod last Friday, and I'm already fucking sick of it all. That's part my fault, since the following is my Christmas music collection: On A Winter's Night: A Windham Hill Collection, Trans-Siberian Orchestra: Christmas Eve and Other Stories, More Trans-Siberian Orchestra: The Christmas Attic (I'm pretty sure that if I had known what the Trans-Siberian Orchestra looked like — they're like a hair metal band reduced to playing holiday parties — I wouldn't own more than one of their CD's), and Mannheim Steamroller: Casio Keyboard New Age Christmas Carols. Gee, who wouldn't want to hear that every day for a month? I also own the Kenny G holiday album, but that one's quarantined in a special Level 4 biohazard container because I appreciate my sanity.

I feel tons of sympathy for those poor people who have to work in department stores and fast-food franchises and everyplace else where there's Christmas carols playing over the P.A. twenty-four/seven. Not that I don't enjoy some ambient music, possibly sprinkled with a subliminal message or two, while I'm spending my hard-earned money on other people... but during the holiday season, you're at the mall, minding your own business, and suddenly "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" gets a suction hold on your brain and you're humming till Martin Luther King Day. Starts off small, with genuine Christmas songs — "Greensleeves" and the unintelligible "Carol of the Bells" — and then your mind moves on to those Christmas songs you learned on the elementary school bus with the real lyrics replaced by dirty stuff you didn't quite understand at the time, and finally to those God-awful new Christmas carols they play on the pop-rock radio station. Because there's no better way to celebrate the birth of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ than having greedy record labels put out sappy songs about some girl's boyfriend miraculously making it home for Christmas Eve. And he got a lift from Santa! And he's bringing presents for orphans! Happy holidays!

Therefore, no sympathy for the people mass-producing our twenty-first century Christmas music, even if their job requires them to rock around the Christmas tree twenty-four/seven, three-hundred sixty-five days a year. Or probably three-hundred sixy-four, since I imagine they don't go into the office on Christmas.... But, ironically, they won't escape the carols! Insert your own evil holiday cackling here.