We’ve entered the most evil and vile part of every year in America. What? Yes, including election days.
If you’re reading this, it means you survived Black Friday, the merchandise massacre immediately after Thanksgiving Day. Even better, it means I lived through it. Know how I did? I stayed the hell home.
There’s a reason why the day after Thanksgiving is called Black Friday. And unless you’re either entirely brainless or white nationalist Richard Spencer, you know it has nothing to do with race.
The Friday after Thanksgiving is referred to as black because that’s when merchants announce the official beginning of the true spirit of Christmas: darkest human greed.
Black Friday is all about Thanks-grabbing — or would-be if any decorum were involved. The milk of human kindness does not just run thin on this day, it’s actually more the consistency of rat urine.
Because I’m allergic to shopping, crowds, cold and shouting, I refuse to leave the house and put other people’s lives at risk for half off the price of a new 500-inch, amniotic-fluid, wafer-screen television.
Likewise, I spent too much time as a cop breaking up drunken scuffles to want to do the same with a couple of moms yanking hair over the last Kardashian Barbie (with interchangeable lips) on the shelf.
I know some people enjoy these bargain brawls — and I’m perfectly willing to benefit from them if anything I’m interested in happened to be heavily discounted.
Unfortunately, I’ve never seen a holiday shopping mob gathered outside a medical marijuana store, a military surplus lot, an ammo bunker, or anyplace that sells cheap black powder by the keg.
This sounds irresponsible and selfish but not nearly as irresponsible and selfish as the season itself. How much do you have to want something to make it worth trampling the young and infirm to get it?
According to the website http://blackfridaydeathcount.com/, there have been 10 deaths and more than 100 reportable injuries directly attributable to Black Friday in the past decade. This doesn’t count sprains, crushed vertebrae, smashed toes, bloody noses and hurt feelings.
It also doesn’t count the skyrocketing incidents of PTSD (Post-Thanks-grabbing Stress Disorder), which is causing children and some adults to lose faith in Santa Claus.
Sweet Little Girl • “Mommy? If Santa brings our toys, why does Daddy have a black eye, you won’t stop crying, and our car has bullet holes?”
Traumatized Mother • “You little brat! Don’t ever mention %#*& Santa to me again! Got it?”
My wife doesn’t like mob shopping either, but if there is something she wants that’s on sale, then I’m supposed to care enough to brave the elements and the crowd.
Her • “You’d go if you loved me enough.”
Me • “Wanna know how much I love you? I’ll wait until March and pay three times what they’re asking for it right now. That’s how much.”
Yeah, she didn’t think that was romantic either. But I didn’t get hurt or wind up in the back of a police car that holiday.
This year, I’m not going out to shop. I’ll go online and wait the uncomfortable and life-threatening 30 seconds it takes to order it. Granted, there are risks in having UPS or FedEx deliver my gifts. Someone might steal them.
That’s OK. This is the fun part of the season for me. I’ll just wait with a rifle in the comfort of my own home for those who think their holiday shopping extends to my front porch.
