The Very Last Salvo in this Year's War on Christmas
Or, if you like, the first in next year's. Glass half empty, glass half full. Up to you.
Owes its genesis to my abject and pitiable inability to expunge this goddamned submoronic song from my abused cranium, leading to fond thoughts of stuffing two live M-80s into my ears and blowing my brains out.*
Having given the matter some thought, having mulled the question, having ruminated the issue, having considered the pros and cons of the matter, having fizzled a synapse or two on the thing, having debated with the Inner Man, having brooded a wee, having mused, moused [U.S.], reflected, conned, deliberated, run, meditated, chewed, turned, revolved, and bestowed thought or consideration upon the subject;
He and his minions behaved toward him as one would toward a particularly unprepossessing bucket of warm lymph until such time as it was convenient and indeed necessary to exploit his unique navigational capabilities, offering as the only incentive reinstatement to a plainly unappealing status quo ante, viz. the thitherto unfairly and capriciously revoked privilege of participation in any Reindeer Games;
BE IT RESOLVED
Rudolph should have told Santa to go shit in his hat.
*Now -- comes the likely whine -- I've put it in your head. Tant pis. Why should I be the only one to suffer?