Christmas music before Thanksgiving should be outlawed.

Christmas decorations before Halloween ought to be banned.

Christmas in July is just nausea inducing.

For that matter, Christmas itself needs to be dragged out in the street and shot.

Gil scowled at the latest batch of Christmas sale commercials on the TV and channel surfed away with a vengeance. It gave him a headache, all those bright cheery perfect looking people in bright colors saying “It’s that magical time of the year again!” He tossed back a shot of Jack Daniel’s.

What’s so magical about it?

Christmas is capitalism’s whore, an excuse to flood the masses with the urgent need to buy more, more, MORE!! The holiday was nothing but maxed out credit cards and huge crowds and parking lot accidents and whining kids and flopped parties and headaches and misery and frustration and anxiety and stress and inadequacy and guilt and despair and heartbreak. Not to mention all the stupid family Christmas specials plaguing the airwaves, spreading hope and joy and holiday cheer like an infectious disease.

Gil didn’t need anyone telling him it was Christmas yet again. This season had become a central fixture in his life, a time permanently engraved upon his being. After all, what could make this overindulgent mockery of a holiday more special than having your family abandon you?

He winced at the memories that surfaced and forewent the shot glass, instead taking a long swallow straight from the bottle. If you’re going to drink, and Christmas is always a good time to indulge, don’t add baby vomit to really good rum and call it something disgusting like eggnog. Who came up with the word eggnog anyways?

Melinda always loved eggnog. He remembered her at a Christmas party a couple years ago, holding a glass and laughing as . . . .

He shook his head firmly, trying to dislodge that memory from his synapses before bitterness could sink back in again, then tenaciously focusing back on the flashing screen in hopes that the mind-numbing programming would work better. His finger twitched on the buttons of the remote, skimming through dozens of digital channels almost faster than the eye could see.

Melinda hated it when he did this, but usually left him to it with a disdainful Look. His kids, however, seemed to stake a personal claim on his precious flatscreen. Now that the TV was all his again (as it should have been all along), he could do this without his kids moaning about what they wanted to watch, about how he was making them miss their favorite shows and how they just had to know what was going on or else they’d lose all their friends at school and he was ruining their lives and besides he wasn’t even watching anything . . .

For the life of him, Gil couldn’t believe that his genes had spawned such a pack of spoiled, selfish little brats. Maybe Melinda had been cheating on him even before she left, because he certainly made no claims to the three snotty whelps that loathed him almost as much as their mother did. The only time they had ever seemed to acknowledge his existence as a parent was when Santa was revealed as a fraud and was no longer an effective behavior modifier. Now it was, “Dad, I want this!” “Dad, get me that!” “Dad, just give me the money and I’ll buy my own gift. You don’t know a single thing I like.”

Gil surfed even faster while the other hand not busy with the remote reached for the Jack, his closest friend these days, to try and drown his sorrows. Even though sorrow knows how to swim, bitter resentment doesn’t and tends to cling to sorrow in sodden panic, weighing them both down until they succumbed. Anger likes to stay afloat for a while longer, but eventually picks up the backstroke to escape to drier shores.

Just as he swallowed a mouthful of the fragrant liquid, a scowling green face on the TV screen caught his attention and for the first time in who knows how long, Gil smiled.

How the Grinch Stole Christmas was a classic, the single holiday movie he actually enjoyed thanks to the incomparable genius of Dr. Seuss. Leaving the remote on the arm, Gil settled his feet up on the coffee table just because Melinda hated it when he did that, and resolved to spend the rest of the evening getting drunk and watching the Grinch.

By the time the theme song came on, the bottle was a little over half gone and so was Gil. He cleared his throat loudly and sang along to the few words he remembered, making up the ones he didn’t, and generally made a loud incomprehensible noise that resembled feedback playing through broken speakers, only not so harmonious.

“You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch.

Given the choice between the two of you,

I’d take the seasick crocodile!”

He laughed stridently and rather drunkenly at that, for it reminded him of his ex-wife. He’d take a seasick crocodile over another day with Melinda anytime, no problem. At least a crocodile would only try to eat him. But if it was seasick, it probably wouldn’t want to, and instead just throw up all over him. Better that than having to listen to her whining and nagging and yelled accusations.

The cartoon continued as the Grinch prepared to steal Christmas, and suddenly Gil was very intent on it. It was more than just a story. There was something here, some truth that, if discovered, could possibly help him. This could be immensely important. Eyes glued to the screen, he tried to see again what had caught his attention.

Of course, that didn’t last long as another swallow of whiskey diluted his attention span. Nodding to himself, he forgot why he was staring so hard at the cartoon and sat back to keep watching more comfortably. The Santa costume the Grinch made reminded him of the time he had dressed up as Santa for the kids in the hospital, years ago in college. He still had the coat, since some kid had thrown up all over it and he’d been forced to buy it because the rental place didn’t want it back.

Melinda hated the thing, and his kids all thought their dad was “supremely uncool” whenever he took it out. Didn’t they understand that Santa was more than just a bringer of toys? He was a symbol of the holiday, of hope and generosity, before all the commercialization stripped him down into a glorified UPS man. Gil frowned as he took another sip. No, they wouldn’t understand that. They don’t know the meaning of the words. Christmas was just a time for them to get more stuff than usual.

Onscreen the Grinch was slithering and slinking through the houses, taking all the presents and the food and the decorations from the ungrateful materialistic Whos.

Gil sat forward with a start, nearly throwing himself off the chair with excitement from his abrupt epiphany. That was it!

He laughed gleefully and hauled himself up to stagger into his bedroom. That was it! The Grinch was the only one with an enlightened soul in this stupid world. Take away all the presents and the trappings and see what Christmas is really about! That’s what he should do!

Slamming the closet door open, Gil rummaged in the back for the Santa coat wrapped protectively in plastic. He fumbled over the shiny material before he managed to rip it open and take out the red velvet and faux fur jacket. It was a bit moth eaten and faded, but it still fit him well enough. In the bottom of the bag lay a battered Santa cap, its white bobble barely hanging on by a thread. With a inebriated giggle he jammed it onto his head, then went to inspect himself in the mirror.

Perfect. He could pass for Santa as this, better than the green Grinch could. Now for the sacks. In the kitchen he found a bunch of plastic grocery bags and stuffed them into his pockets, along with a few black trash bags since he knew that some presents would be bigger than others.

Gil frowned as he tried to think of what else he was missing. Ah yes, the reindeer and sleigh. Reindeer are rather hard to come by, and actually they weren’t all that necessary. Plus they stink. But the sleigh . . . well, his truck would work well enough, and it had the room to take all the stuff away. Yes, this stealing Christmas thing looked like the perfect idea.

Grabbing the bottle of whiskey and his keys, he found himself humming as he lurched to his truck and jammed the keys into the ignition. He didn’t remember exactly how he managed to get there, since he was rather busy balancing the bottle while driving, but soon enough he was parked rather haphazardly across his ex-wife’s front lawn.

He turned off the engine and stumbled out, looking up at the house. It was perfectly decorated both outside and in, with a tree of all white lights and angels shining like a beacon in the front window. But other than that the house was dark, the inhabitants no doubt asleep and dreaming their greedy little dreams. Gil managed a kind of sneer at the thought, but then something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

The lawn had once been home to a couple of pretty little lighted deer, until Gil’s sleigh decided that it was evicting them. Now both deer were jammed up in the front grill, lights unnoticed in the glare of the headlights. Gil started laughing; now his sleigh had reindeer! He whispered loudly, “Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Where’s Vixen and Rudolph?” and laughed again.

The lights on the house next door flicked on, and Gil shut up, staring over there in mild horror. Santa wasn’t supposed to be seen, especially when his job wasn’t done yet! He ran around the back, away from the lights, and breathed a sigh of relief as no one came to investigate. He looked at the back patio doors, but knew that they were locked. Melinda always had been obsessive about locked doors. But windows . . .

Sure enough, the window over the kitchen sink was cracked open. Gil popped the screen out and opened it fully, then clambered up rather awkwardly. He fell into the sink and nearly got his foot stuck, but after a moment or two he worked himself free. Standing there in the dark kitchen, he struggled not to start chuckling again. It was going perfectly so far.

He tiptoed into the living room, eyeing all the presents piled under the tree. There were the usual small boxes and whatnot, plus a couple bigger packages stuffed back under the window. One looked big enough to be a new TV. Gil checked the label – yes, it was for his son, the techno-geek and all around wimp. The kid was in high school and had never learned how to look after himself. The only time he was confident was when it came to computers and other gizmos.

With a snort, Gil opened up his sacks and started scooping the packages up, setting the filled bags by the front door to take out later. Once they were all bundled up, he went back to the kitchen to take the Christmas treats. In went the cans of cranberry sauce, the gravy, the boxes of stuffing, the defrosting ham, the still-frozen turkey, the fresh baked pitzelles, the homemade fudge, and everything else. Last Gil poured in the eggnog, which smelled and looked exactly like baby vomit.

Gil was grinning broadly as he lugged the sodden bag to the door with the others. This was rather fun. He liked being a Grinch-y Santa. Looking around, he tore down the Christmas decorations from the walls and threw them in the same bag as the food. Finally all there was left was the tree.

He liked the smell of fresh pine trees, but Melinda had always flatly refused to get a live tree. She didn’t want to water it or clean up the needles or have find someplace to throw it out in January. So this tree was a store-bought plastic one, something that looked good and almost real until you got close enough to realize that the branches were too symmetrical to be genuine. It was also much lighter and far less prickly than a real tree, a fact that Gil much appreciated right now.

He had his arms around it and was somehow staggering towards the door when he heard a sudden pop! There was a faint sizzle, then a burst of bright flame right in front of his face. Gil yelled in surprise and dropped the tree, which smashed into the piled bags by the door with a loud crash. One particular squish was heard, and eggnog leaked all over the carpet in a foul gooey puddle. He watched dumbfounded as a paper angel ornament in front of a frayed cord of lights flamed and curled into a black crisp.

It didn’t stop there. The fiery angel parts dropped into a bag full of presents and suddenly the wrapping paper was starting to smolder. Clumsily Gil dropped to his knees and tried to blow it out, with no success. In fact, the faint glow grew brighter, then tongues of fire were licking over the boxes and packages.

Gil scurried back, watching with wide eyed interest as smoke curled into the air and more decorations started to feel the heat. Slowly it built until there was a nice Yule fire burning on the carpet. The snap and crackle of the flames made him smile, bringing back fond childhood memories of Christmas past, and he wished he had some marshmallows to toast.

Suddenly a loud obnoxious beep shrilled, making him jump and fall over in surprise. He glanced around wildly, trying to find the source of the noise, and spotted a smoke detector on the archway leading to the kitchen. Grumbling at the stupid thing, he wobbled back to his feet to walk over and hit it. The noise didn’t stop. He hit it again, then when it still persisted he took his hat and swung.

The plastic disc was knocked off the wall and tumbled onto his head, still screaming out in electronic pain. Between the mid-air collision and the screeching, his head was really starting to pound. With a muttered curse, Gil flipped it over and yanked out the battery, and thankfully the sound stopped.

While he had been playing with the smoke alarm, the fire, apparently tired to consuming only ornaments and wrapping paper, seized the opportunity to spread out across the carpet to the nearest bit of furniture, a sofa. Gil blinked at the curious sight of flaming furniture, the material stripping away to magically reveal the inner workings of the armrests.

It was getting a bit hot inside, so he decided that maybe it was a good time to leave. Stepping out into the crisp cold December air, he drew in a deep breath of satisfaction. The plan didn’t go off quite right, but he figured that maybe it was better this way. At least he didn’t have to try and lug all that junk out to his truck now, and he didn’t have to find someplace like Mount Crumpet to dump it.

Gil walked over to his truck, his sleigh with the two reindeer fleeing before it, and found his bottle still sitting faithfully in the front seat. Leaning back on the hood, he took a drink as he watched the flames dance in the living room window and tickle through the ceiling. It was beautiful, and it all started from a Christmas tree. He started to sing, well slur out, “O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree . . .” but couldn’t remember the words.

Then he heard voices coming from the house, and he looked up to see Melinda standing at her bedroom window, clutching a robe around herself and screaming something. Other windows opened to reveal the faces of his kids, also screaming. Maybe they wanted to sing along with him. He grinned up at them and waved to get them to join in.

By now the entire first floor was blazing, and smoke was pouring out the open bedroom windows. Gil watched with fascination as those windows lit up from within, and soon little spits of fire traced the edges. It was gorgeous, especially since now it started to snow. The fire was so nice and warm in contrast to the cold wind and snow, and together they made the perfect Christmas.

Gil drained the bottle, extremely satisfied. He had done a good job of stealing Christmas, taking away all the extra bits and pieces, and taught his family what Christmas was really about. That was Santa’s job, after all, even if he had to play a bit of a Grinch to get it done.

The first sets of flashing red and blue lights were just pulling into the neighborhood, their sirens strangely melodic. Beaming at the people coming to join him this fine night in front of the festive bonfire, Gil started up a new carol.

“Chestnuts roasting over an open fire . . .”