Like 99.999999999999999314159% of the human race, I can’t stand Christmas music. But a spoonful of metal helps the reindeer shit go down, in the most delightful way. Here’s a more interesting take on a certain Mariah Carey number:
A guy in a Santa costume rocking out? Yes, please…
They should play that shit in the malls, but of course they won’t. This next vid is not a holiday standard per se, but it does feature St. Nick’s Norwegian cousin wandering the streets of New York…
Here’s a couple of more traditional numbers given the symphonic power metal treatment…
…and here’s a tune that should be mandatory at every Christmas party, because Lemmy was a god who walked among men.
Finally, I leave you with a fairly straight cover of one of the more overtly religious Christmas standards performed by Rob Halford. Yes, that Rob Halford. The same Rob Halford who uptight reactionary parents used to accuse of being the siren of Satan way back in the day when all that cockamamie horseshit about backmasking was actually taken seriously (at one point there was even a whole legal case about it, which the reactionary parents thankfully lost). I don’t think it’s even scientifically possible for him to do anything that isn’t metal as fuck.
…and if he protests and calls you every filthy name† in the book, hug him anyway. A smile is a friendly greeting to a dog who has interacted regularly with humans since birth. But to a wild dog who knows nothing of human civilization, a smile is always an invitation to a fight, irrespective of the smiler’s true motive⁂. How severely depressing it must be to go through life assuming every smile has hostile intentions behind it. I think we can all agree that the world needs much less depressing.
* Western Canada as a geographic region and sociopolitical entity is traditionally thought to consist of four provinces. As in, not two. Four. Out of those four provinces, two of them (who just happen to be the only two with oceanic coastlines, and thus potential ports to meet the all-important economic needs of a hypothetical new nation) have officially gone on record stating their desire to remain part of the Canadian family in spite of any current misgivings with the feds, and want no part of all That. The other two aren’t officially pursuing That either, but their respective governments are all too happily eager to milk That for all That’s worth in order to score cheap political brownie points with their constituents, because pathological misanthropy is the very heartbeat and lifeblood of today’s conservatism. I hence outright refuse to call That by its common name of Wexit. In light of actual observable reality, the Wexit label is a misnomer. Despite its origins as a satirical hashtag intended to ridicule the whole concept, Rednexit is clearly a more accurate (and therefore much more appropriate) term.
** The choice of pronoun here was deliberate. The Rednexiteers are another one of those angry white men’s movements who collectively kneel before the high altar of St. Cheeto of Mar-a-Lago. Like the Proud Boys. Or Super Happy Fun America. Or any one of those online incel gangs. Or whatever shady forum of the dark web Alexandre Bissonnette was involved with. If you ever meet a Rednexiteeress, you can bet your bottom dollar she became one largely at the insistence of her laid-off oil worker husband.
† Should the filthy names in question be racist or homophobic in nature, hug him twice. The predilection to blame all one’s problems on some marginalized minority group is one of the symptoms of Stage IV conservatism. As an aside, nothing says “my brain never graduated from junior high school” quite like the use of the word retard as a derogatory epithet. Or any portmanteau incorporating either or both of that word’s syllables. For fuck’s sake, if you absolutely MUST insult people, do it with class.
⁂ If the recent forty-third general election cycle is any indication, the Conservative Party of Canada is seemingly fond of using analogies involving dogs. I figured I may as well speak their language.
There’s an old koan which speaks of a fish and its relationship with water. A fish lives its entire life in water, but does not understand what water is. Water is such a ubiquitous and all-permeating part of the fish’s reality that the fish is completely unaware of it. It is unable to make any distinction between water and non-water, because it is oblivious to the existence of either. The fish finally understands when it is removed from the water, but dies shortly after. I reckon it must be the same way with people who live their entire lives surrounded by beauty…‡
‡ That last sentence is in all likelihood a steaming hot pile of horseshit, but I nevertheless thought it would make a swell introduction to these photographic and videographic mementos of my many travels to Wild Rose Country.
My apologies for the lack of sexiness in that title. It is no secret that in the current zeitgeist, nothing kills the sexy quite like any mention of politics. But I decided to go with that title anyway, in the hopes that it will be vindicated by the passage of time. Perhaps this blog post will have a sexy title in another era. An era when the free world is not being ruled by a living breathing Oompa Loompa. An Oompa Loompa of a far less intelligent breed than the familiar Wonkan stock, with an even looser grasp of human normalcy than the experimental bastard child of a wolverine and some thousand-fanged entity that hatched from an undigested corn kernel buried deep in a roadside pile of excrement shat by the Dark Lord Cthulhu himself somewhere in the same parallel timestream in the multiverse where everybody’s evil twin lives. A timestream where CEO is an anagram of God, but dog is not.
A couple of weeks ago while I was waiting on baited breath for some special announcement telling us of the grand opening of a fancy new dog park at a certain house on Pennsylvania Avenue, politics as it relates to world-building in fiction spontaneously came up as a discussion topic on the aforementioned Oompa Loompa’s social media network of choice…