Anyway, the other car was one of those moments where you say, “FARG IT ALL…I need a toy.” Usually this uttered when I walk into a Dallas bar, but…

Kidding. Kidding.

Got my mom an Accord, but I got her the coupe…ha! An 80-year-old with a sunroof and two doors. Serves her right for asking for a buddhadamnwaterbreakermambajama car for a Christmas present. Heh…revenge of the gift-givers.

The other is that nifty little Honda S2000 (I think that’s what it’s called.) Honestly I didn’t take much notice. I saw “convertible”, “two-seater”, “all but useless” and “I wanna be a Boxster, but I’m just too damn non-pretentious” written all over my little go-cart…and out came the checkbook.

You gotta understand some basics, here. First, life is way too short to live without a sports car. On the other hand, as a guy who has owned multiple Porches, well…let’s see how to say this in a politically-correct fashion…

…yeah, like I’m ever gonna.

You can’t get excited over the flag girl after you’ve had the prom queen, ya know? Do you? If you don’t, you didn’t have fun in high school, and that may explain why you’re not laughing and wondering why you’re reading such filth the day before Jesus’ birthday.

So, going from “911 Turbo” to a car of the same maker (said Boxster, as fine as that car is)….ugh. Flag girl. The only other option is cheap slut, and that I can live with. The Honda is the cheap slut of sports cars. It’s not overkill slut…just “under-the-radar but-kinda-sexy-and-performs-better-than-you-think-it-would” cheap slut.

Look, don’t try to figure me out — just run with me for a second. It’s all in good fun, and “slut” isn’t a dirty word. They even allow it on TV now.

I’m not pretentious enough to do the Merc thing, although I know cool people with 500 and 600 SLs. (Tom, you suck.) Then there’s the origami on wheels — The Aston Martin. Oh. My. G-word. Still, I can’t justify spending more on a car than I would dating Paris Hilton in a year.

Cars. Paris Hilton. Sexual references. And Jesus’ b-day. Man.

If it makes you feel any better (don’t worry…it won’t), it’s not really Jesus’ birthday. We did a U2/Helter-Skelter trip on that whole December 25th bit. Believe it or not, that was originally the celebrated birthday of one “Mithra”, an Indo-Iranian sun-god, circa 600 B.C. Horus, the Egyptian “god of the sky”, also laid claim to December 25, and that was about 1,000 years earlier. Popular date to be born, I guess.

Christians later did the right thing and “borrowed” the date (i.e. stole) for their own purposes. Bravo, I say — just like Bono said about “Helter Skelter”, the old Beatles song, “This is a song Charles Manson stole from the Beatles…well, we’re stealin’ it baaaak.” That’s Irish you know. The early Christians probably said the same thing. “This was originally a pagan day, and now it’s our day. Why? Because we’re now in charge, Buckwheat Ceaser…and Jesus wants a party.”

Never ye mind that Jesus himself didn’t bother to mention tossing a party on his behalf. He was too busy doing important stuff to worry about it, but we have gobs and gobs of time to worry about it, spend money on it, argue about it, make it politically incorrect, and debate the origins of it. Hmmm.

Anyway, good old Mirtha was born (get this) from a rock.

Now, looky here — I’m an open-minded chap. Really, I am. I just can’t see picking up a piece of mossy limestone, putting on my mantle, and asking it for advice. Sure, go all Moses-like, strike the hell out of the bloody thing and wait for water…but don’t freakin’ talk to it.

There’s gullible, and then there’s downright fargin’ brain-drained stupid.

Here’s how I see it: would you rather say happy birthday to Jesus or Rock Boy? I’m siding with the Big J on this one. I mean, what does one get for the rock who has everything?

That’s some hard shopping.

Jesus was easier — let’s see, there was Gold, Frankenstein and Moo-cow. That’s how I remembered it once as a child in Sunday school. The teacher kicked me in the rubbers and told me I was the spawn of Satan, if memory serves. Hell, I was only 6. I’ve been scarred for life.

Still, I’m all for Jesus folk claiming, “Hey, that was our God’s birthday, you….you…spawn of Satan!”

I think they had the same Sunday school teacher as I did. Mine was older than dirt, so it stands to reason.

So, they swiped that date, and Easter while they were at it, and there you go. Now we have all these holidays where dress up and go to church, go to the fridge, or both at the same time if you’re non-denominational.

Don’t freak on me. None of this is a bad thing, just a bit of history.

Wow. The history of religion on a blog about shedding fat. It’s what you’ve come to expect.

Oh golly…one more thing. For the record, most historians believe Jesus was born in the fall. However, a few use some star stuff from various Biblical texts and come up with — hey, December! So, it could have been the 25th I guess. That would really show those other bozo Messiahs…especially Rock Boy.

(You just wanna cuddle with me, don’t you?)

Surely this is not what I had in mind when telling you to wake up earlier today, right? Right. This is all a test to see how much you missed me, or how much you can tolerate before logging off and taking a bath in holy water.

Here’s the “wake up” bit: we care more about these dates than we do our bodies. Religion aside (as you can attach great significance to these dates, like the birth of whom many believe to be the Son of God), it’s just a date. Sure, celebrate it like there won’t be another one, but come on — why do we put our lives on hold in the process? Why stuff ourselves with more s—t than service or solace? Since when is this a license for gluttony?

I woke up a long time ago, but I keep waking up. You should, too. My last wake-up was last night. My chef brought over all this…STUFF. Fudge. Lemon drops. You name it. Sure, I had a few bites…then I asked her to take them away mui pronto. Why did she bring this to me? Because the calendar told her to. It actually didn’t, but our media and traditions yell and scream this message louder than than srceams of agony from theaters showing yet another Tim Allen Santa flick.

Be it dead bird or dead pig, we gotta kill and eat on holidays. We can’t just celebrate the moment. We have to embalm ourselves in the moment — literally.

Wake up. Now. Not next week. Now.

Hey, have some tasty food — just don’t make Christmas or any other holiday about “food” or “presents” when it’s really about something else, even if it wasn’t originally about that at all.

If you’re Jewish, take the moral and apply it to holidays with lots of consonants.

If you’re Hindu…well, I dunno. Do whatever you guys do, but the principle still applies.

If you’re an atheist or an agnostic, you’re probably celebrating Christmas traditions anyway because your kids would string you up by your Santa beard if you didn’t. After all, little Bobby Jenkins down the street is getting that new Robo-Robobot toy or whatever is being pumped into their wee little minds by the idiot box called “television.” You’re stuck bud. Either that, or your kid gets beat up a lot at school. Perhaps he or she is a bad-ass and a pagan. In that case, you’re probably just laughing at all of this rambling — but you still eat too damn much.

Ha. Got ya.

Sorry to come down hard on all of you guys, but someone has to scratch this CD that’s playing traditional songs over and over again — songs that suck, drain the life out of you, and make you pawns of the shopping malls and pastry shops. Checkmate, pal.

How’s this sound: celebrate whatever holiday you want in the way any God or swell person would want: with love, peace, and gratitude for your blessings, including your body.

That’s about as sweet as I can get tonight. After all, I didn’t get my go-cart because…get this…there was a $75 tax lien on my credit report from 10 years ago that doesn’t even exist anymore.

Am I bummed? Naw — we can clear that up on Tuesday. I’m more bummed that by then many of you may be a few pounds fatter. Don’t let me down. Don’t let yourselves down. Don’t let your beliefs down.

You can elevate all the above, all at once.

Merry Everyday to you all. {10}