I am Demon No Thought, recently re installed as editor of this humble page. Previous editor Molly Wacker-Stifley, whose managerial incontinence caused severe financial seepage, has been convicted and sentenced to retail sales. She is presently working in the left sock department at your local Wal-Mart. May her forced perkiness and false gaiety serve her well.
I have postponed my annual Castor Oil and Pizza fast to rehabilitate this cirrhotic page. As the oppressive gloom of winter sucks away at my enormous creativity, this already formidable task becomes all the more daunting. How can the royal editorial we enlighten our readers while squandering our precious time standing in a endless line at the Post Office? How can we muster even one creative thought while being attacked on all sides by the annual Invasion of Inanity that is Christmas? How can we find just the right fruitcake for dear old Auntie Histamine?
The answer, desperate readers, is to create a special Holiday Issue of The Satyrist, dedicated to the spirit of Kamikaze Kommerce, Bellicose Buying, and Repeat Refunds. If you too are overwhelmed by this Seasonal Cesspool, let the Satyrist wade into the murky waters and keep your carcass afloat.
A Special Disclaimer: Our motto at The Satyrist is "let the buyer be weird." We don't do refunds---no matter how elaborate the histrionics, no matter how infantile the tantrum. If you don't like our Holiday Issue, then take it back to Nordstrom's. They will give you a full refund and then lock themselves in a stockade as an Act of Eternal Commercial Repentance. Our philosophy of customer service maintains the high standards set by graveyard-shift cooks at Denny's. In other words Be Nice or we will spit on your Chicken Fried Steak!!!!!!!!!!!
So this is Christmas. Primatekind's pathetic attempt to erase the bitter, frigid terror that envelops us all in deepest winter. And if we open our heavy-lidded, reddened eyes to gaze out at this sordid spectacle, what do we see? Bumbling hypocrites celebrating the birth of a Savior whose teaching they routinely ignore. And more: whining children, sullen teenagers, anesthetized parents, all stumbling madly along a treadmill of stark, unremitting terror, searching vainly for some contrived, totemistic icon to relieve their relentless suffering. And the Christmas Tree?---A pitiful Pagan Ritual rendered sadly impotent in modern times --a few cheap lights slathered around a withered, rotting shrub, unable to illuminate the vast, immanent grayness of the Winter Solstice ( I live in Seattle). Christmas presents---emotionally sterile brain candy, invariably crafted by Chinese slave labor, unable to fill the vast spiritual void within our shriveled craniums. The mistletoe--formerly a prelude to orgiastic ecstasy, now merely another vessel to transmit microbial misery from one automaton to the next. The Holiday Turkey---if one more innocent beast is slaughtered, who will be left to support Ross Perot?
Ah, the crassness and stupidity that is Christmas. A time of maximized credit cards and minimized meaning; a futile volley against the Omnipotent Death that reigns supreme each winter. I am but a solitary, impotent scribe, composing this tome as I stare blankly into the the putrid void that is the Andy Williams Christmas Special. Some may mutter "kill your television"----but they are wrong--for it is all of civilization that must be destroyed.
And how will your author celebrate the holidays? Alone, as always, with only a can of Almond Roca and Darwin's "Origin of the Feces" to deepen my gloom. Perhaps my pet virus Muertos will leave his Petri dish for a while and deign to torture me with his infectious whimpering. There is no escape. There is no salvation. We are all prisoners. Of the Wal-Mart Nation. I am Ennui.
Editor's Note: Despite his profound sense of alienation, Ennui is hoping to cash in big time this Christmas. Apathy Records is re releasing Ennui classics Hillbilly Hoedown, Darkness on the Edge of Darkness as well as the inevitable Gothic Christmas. This marks the first time that the seminal Hoedown will be available on 8-track.
If you intend to survive the Holiday Season, much more commitment and self discipline will required than what you have show so far. You should Return to the Beginning and start over.
Shopping malls are owned by rich people whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower and whose integrity went down with the Titanic. While the mall owners are busy sniffing up the profits, the managers are busy dehumanizing the beleaguered mall employees. The mall where your author works is managed by a shriveled sycophant named Wes, whose primary job qualification is that he helped drive his previous employer (a nationally respected retail chain) into bankruptcy. In psychiatric terms, we suffer from his Napoleon Complex--only in this case His Royal Shortness has been appointed Emperor of the Mall. Although his marketing incompetence is legendary (the Ted Bundy Look Alike Contest comes to mind), only in the realm of employee relations does his emotional retardation truly become obvious.
Wes' first task was to oversee an expansion of mall retail space and corresponding contraction of parking space. To solve the inevitable parking shortage, Wes' relentless analytical mind decided to forbid mall employees from parking in the lots. Violators are fined $50--no due process or right of appeal here, folks. Our supposedly "upper end" mall also suffers from a dearth of tables at which to eat the mall's lackluster cuisine. The solution? Wes the Wuss has forbidden employees from eating at the tables. Perhaps he wants us to stand out in the parking lot and eat---but wait---there's no room there either!!!! When employees complained about this latest dictatorial fiat, Wes responded by quoting Mother Theresa on the Nature of Altruism in the mall newsletter. Lay people often fail to discern the deeply spiritual nature of retail management. Wes---a very 90's kind of "guy"---also utilizes high technology to violate the privacy of his minions. The security area features an elaborate video surveillance system, with resolution sufficient to "see the mascara on a cutie's face." Mostly this system enables the cop wannabees upstairs to stare endlessly at attractive women as they walk into the mall. It was sadly useless during the recent string of jewelry store robberies.
But there is more to life than just work for Wes the Wus. Since the Boring White Man who owns the mall drives a Harley-Davidson, a mid-life epiphany led Wes to imitate his benefactor. Dedicated mall watchers are often treated to the sight of our Little Dicktator riding his mighty steed into his personal parking space. Often he waves at a group of bemused mall employees as they eat their Chicken Nuggets in the driving rain.
If while reading this you envision a Mel Gibsonish stud, guess again. Rather, Wes' physical presence resembles a bizarre, failed attempt at cross breeding. His many pompous pronouncements are delivered in a whiny, grating voice that recalls Jerry Lewis before his voice changed. Facially, he resembles Ross Perot with a couple of DSS satellite Dishes in place of traditional ears. He's so short that he needs a stool to order at McDonald's. As he cruises thru the burbs in his preposterous leather biker outfit, passersby often laugh so uncontrollably that cracked ribs and fainting episodes are not uncommon.
This week the mall maintenance staff was exposed to the full impact of his unbridled genius. Hot on the heels of the Ted Bundy fiasco, he concocted a scheme to create the "world's largest strawberry shortcake"--slices of which were to be given away free to the first 5 million or so customers. The K-Mart shoppers who invaded the mall, Pavlovian drool oozing from their trembling lips at mention of the word "free," were disappointed to find a mere two employees serving a football field-sized shortcake. As the lines grew longer, the Blue Light Blubber Butts became restless. Finally, they began serving themselves, expressing their displeasure by stomping the shortcake into the newly-waxed floors. As always, dutiful mall staff was enlisted to get Wes out of another "jam." Several hours were required to shovel the pulverized shortcake into the dumpster. The food wasted could have fed an entire third world village. Stung by the resultant withering criticism, Wes again used the newsletter to defend himself, this time with quotations from The Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever."
The Rumors are True! Now, exclusively in The Satyrist free yet priceless advice from His Eminence Guru Lenny Ramakrishna. He's the Guru of Gab, the Avatar of Advice, a veritable New Age Newt Gingrich. This high energy, smash-mouthed Dharma Dude will radiate counsel on any topic, providing his own unique perspective on these spiritually vacant times. Is your world painfully out of adjustment? Then let Lenny be your own Consciousness Chiropractor.
Cadillac Tastes, Chevy Budget: I recently purchased a limited edition totemistic icon for $1.98 at a local warehouse store. The forklift operator who sold it to me was unwilling to provide the original packing box---thus reducing the market value of my collectible to one dollar or less. Being a compulsive shopper I purchased the icon anyway, but now I want to get back at the forklift guy. What do you suggest? Perhaps one of those gutless anonymous complaints to corporate headquarters? The Guru Replies: Get real, get a life, get outta my Web Page! Any idiot knows that a quality totemistic icon costs at least ten bucks. The edition you purchased is about as "limited" as hookers at a Shriner's convention. You no doubt drive a rattling, dilapidated Chevrolet. Do you expect it to drive like a Cadillac? I suggest shopping at the Salvation Army. They might even offer you a job.
According to Web Counter you are individual # to understand the true meaning of the Holiday Season.
The pain is all gone now. You have taken you medicine and those nasty thoughts are fading away. You can now Return to the Beginning.
© 1996 Charlotte A., Michael R., Dennis L. Hayes