A glimpse into a Male Christmas

Maybe I shouldn’t Save All My Shopping
for Christmas Eve

As I drive around
without my glasses
towards the mall
all the houses blaze with fire.
“so this is Christmas”
staggering figures of high energy
bills run through my head
to justify why
my house doesn’t
resemble the
Grizwold Family

even though it’s always
been my dream

Then I hit
traffic forty-five
minute wait
from light to
light, the streets
signs are glowing
and the parking
lot to the King of Prussia
Hooters is packed with
young teenage boys hiding
from family holiday parties while
making Christmas
wishes that the under paid college
girls’ giant
Christmas Bulbs could
be their Christmas

Then Finally after
several light changes and
inching up inch by inch
for several miles I reach
the mall, King Mecca
King Of Prussia.

Last minute shopping is
a meticulously unplanned
event “i need this
for them” as you hop
from store to store
as a modern-day scavenger
hunt buying things nobody
needs but they could possibly
want. “i think little
Sally would like an
Wine oxygenator for
apple juice” or
“This christmas
sweater/tie honestly
doesn’t look
will love it.”
Ignorance is bliss.
It’s heaven
buying the low-cost
knickknacks thinking
“they’ll love me” at a low
cost price. That’s
for everybody except
for girlfriends and

Girlfriends and wives
deserve at least the extra
special something, the extra
effort, the sacrifice.

As I walk into
victoria secret
I see a bunch of men
walking around heads
down avoiding eye
contact, a few
men are sticking
bottles of perfume
up their noses to catch
the scent, a few others
staring glassy eyed
at lacy things
with exciting little
tassels fantacising
about the excellent love
they could be making
if only they
would have shopped
a few days

Then there
is the line, all
men with one or
two old women
waiting. Most people
have nothing, like
me, we’re
buying gift cards
cause we forgot
the sizes we actually
need. If we buy
too big she
won’t wear it
if we buy too small
we’ll like it, but again
she won’t wear it and
dance around quoting
“what do you think I am?
Some kind of trashy slut.”
which you could reply “yes”
and get none
or “no” and realize
that’s what you actually
want. The shame…
it’s safer to get
the gift card.

On my way out
of Victoria’s Secret
I hear Bing Crosby’s
white christmas playing
over the radio and
the occasional child
looks up to their
father with happy faces
and I can read the minds
of the overly joyous father’s
“shit, I should get my self
a shovel.”

Shopping for a shovel
requires going to the
sporting good store
and looking at fishing
until the mall

The kids are busy crying
because they are afraid
they’ll miss santa.

The dad leaves and
Christmas shopping
is done.

As I walk out of the store
I feel a sense of accomplishment
holding my gift
cards, fishing pole, wine
aerator, a sweater,
and a shovel
I feel a sense of
“complete success”
and after three hours
of shopping (or rather
just waiting in line) and
another hour waiting
in traffic
I get home drink
some scotch and
get drunk
enough to think
that I might
actually get
to meet Santa.

Of course he doesn’t come
and I’m left
with the worlds worst
hangover and
the realization

I never got
anything for
my mother.


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