Note: There are two modes of defining something. The positive way is to say what something is. The negative way is to say what it isn’t. While the second version often takes up more time, the opposite can be quite illustrative of what its polar twin actually is. I don’t post lyrics very often, but this old Steve Martin routine perfectly exemplifies what Christmas isn’t (and through the negative, what it is). Also, it gives people some extra eggnog recipes. Enjoy.
(Paul Simon plays Silver Bells in the background as Steve Martin narrates:)
Last night my child looked up at me and said, "Uncle Steve?" He didn't know I was his father. I didn't know for sure either. I just assumed I was. I'd had his mother so many times, and in so many different ways, the odds were with me. Anyway, he looked up at me and said, "What does Christmas mean to you?" And I said, Limiel, Christmas is a time for giving, a time for receiving, a time for eggnog and rum.
A time for cutting down trees and hanging plastic doo-dads on them and watching them die slowly in your living room... catch fire and burn down your house and all your possessions.
It's a time for buying things that haven't sold all year long, wrapping them up in shiny paper, and giving them to your friends. Who return them and find out you got in on sale, and they can only exchange them for things of equal value like charcoal briquettes or matchbooks with other people's names on them.
A time for giving your wife that special coat she's always wanted. Those seals didn't need their fur, anyway. What do they want it for, they're dead already.
It's a time for eggnog and brandy. Driving home on icy streets. Accidentally nudging the car next to you off the bridge into the frozen river. Watching the car sink. Seeing bubbles float up under the water.
It's time to sip an eggnog martini and think about the poor. Talk of feeding the naked and clothing the hungry.
A time to get Christmas cards from all your friends at Consolidated and Allied and Acme.
A time for seeing all those happy children sitting on Santa's lap at Toyland, thinking to yourself, "Hmmm... Maybe I'll be a Santa next year. Twelve years is not so far from eighteen. Maybe I should be laying a little groundwork for the future."
It's a time for parties at the office with eggnog and vodka. Telling your boss what you really think of him, while he gets a perfect Xerox of your wife's rear end.
Time for sitting by the hearth sipping eggnog and tequila, with your feet up on a burning log, realizing that Uncle Walt has been in your garage for forty-five minutes with the car running. You say to yourself, "Damn Uncle Walt, he was supposed to bring me back more eggnog." And that, Limiel, is what Christmas means to me.
(The two harmonize on the final verse:)
Soon it will be Christmas Day…
