Ho ho ho, you brain-dead, tinsel-worshipping drones—welcome to Christmas 2024, the annual orgy of greed and lies that makes even the most hardened cynic want to puke into a snow globe. I’m holed up in my apartment, the city outside glittering like a cheap stripper under neon lights, while the socials blast carols remixed by long forgotten DJs to sell you more crap you don’t need. Merry Christmas, you filthy animals. Let’s see how deep this cesspool goes.
The streets are a warzone of last-minute shoppers, their eyes glazed over from the endless stream of ads screaming “BUY THIS OR YOUR KIDS WILL HATE YOU.” I saw a guy in a Santa hat get trampled outside a megastore for the last console—his blood’s still staining the pavement, but don’t worry, the drones cleaned it up before the kiddies could see. Meanwhile, the Salvation Army bots are out there, ringing their bells and guilt-tripping you into donating to a cause that’s probably just a front for some corporate tax scam. Peace on Earth? More like profit on Earth, you gullible bastards.
Christmas in the City is a grotesque carnival of excess. The air stinks of fake pine and desperation as families max out their credit cards to buy the latest toys for their kids—because nothing says “I love you” like toy they wont give a fuck about in six months. The feeds are pumping out heart-warming slop about unity and joy, but let’s cut the crap: this holiday’s a machine designed to keep you broke. You’re not celebrating the birth of Christ—you’re worshipping at the altar of capitalism, and the only thing being born is another generation of debt slaves.
I went down to the homeless quarter this morning, where the real City lives. No twinkling lights there, just kids huddling under heat vents, their parents shooting up whatever drug they could get their hands on to escape this world for a few minutes. A woman with a hand full of dead flowers offered me a bite of her clearly stolen turkey—tasted like despair and security tags. She told me her kid asked for a new home for Christmas, but all she could afford was a second-hand tent with holes all over, not good every time it rains. That’s your Christmas miracle, folks: the gift of barely surviving.
Me, I’m celebrating the only way I know how: with a bottle of something that burns going down and a fresh pack of smokes. I’m gonna spend the day digging through the City’s underbelly, finding the stories you don’t want to hear—like how the new Christmas lights cost too much to even turn on, or how the latest holiday toy is made with toxic plastic, banned in every civilized country. You can keep your jingle bells; I’ll take the sound of truth hitting you like a brick to the face.
So here’s my Christmas wish for you, you herd of mindless sheep: wake the hell up. Stop buying into the lie that this season is about anything other than control and profit. Burn your credit cards, tell your boss to shove it, and maybe—just maybe—do something real for someone who’s got less than you. Or don’t. Keep stuffing your face and pretending everything’s fine. Either way, I’ll be here, watching this whole shitshow burn, with a grin on my face and a cigarette in my hand.
Merry Christmas, you degenerate freaks. Try not to choke on the lies.
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