Crap Christmas Card?

The holiday season is approaching, great. I'll happily have the days off, don't get me wrong. But I don't have anything with Christmas or the tacky obligations that come with it, least of all Christmas cards. The compulsory exchange of cards between each other with the exact same message on it every year. It is very impersonal and I refuse to take part in it.

At least a birthday card is bought, written and sent especially for you, somebody remembered it is your day and made that effort for you alone. Christmas cards get sent out in bulk to absolutely everyone in a person’s address book, work environment and neighbourhood, just because that is expected. There is an unwritten protocol when it comes to the Christmas card process that everyone seems to follow.

Step one is to find the corniest tackiest most revoltingly tasteless card possible.
Christmas trees, religious imprints even though you’re not (does Christmas even have anything to do with the bible?) a picture of a fat Santa Claus, snowmen, candy houses and candles. The tackier the better. The one that tops them all is the "personalised" photo card. Christmas tree in the background, the family on the couch, painfully grinning like retarded madmen because the self-timer is taking so long. Of course the family pets are not to be excluded, preferably wearing a Christmas hat or even funnier: antlers! O, the joy, what a crazy family we are.
I’m sorry but they deserve a slap for that, friends or not.

Step two is to write a personal message on these cards. Usually the card itself is already pre-printed with the compulsory “season’s greetings” or “merry Xmas and happy new year” message. This is handy and a huge time saver, because now all that needs to be filled in is the name of the sender. How’s that for a heartfelt genuine act of thoughtfulness! If I would participate in this commercial crap (which I refuse) I would hold on to each year’s cards, in the next year draw two arrows between the “from” and “to”, and send it back to the original sender. The year after that they can just white out the arrows and send it to me again. Brilliant.

The final step of the entire process is to send your horrendous card to absolutely every single person that you are even remotely acquainted with. Friends, family, neighbours, colleagues that you see every day, vague acquaintances, pub mates, the paperboy, the bus driver, your GP, everyone.

Fortunately every now and then you find a gem between the (s)crap. One of the better Christmas cards I have seen was a torn scrap of cardboard, folded in two, which said:

Money's short
times are hard
Here's your fuckin'
Christmas card.
Refreshingly different to merry Christmas, is my opinion.

Another beauty that definitely left its mark was the one pictured below: concept, production and design by my friend Nico. Warning: do not view on a weak stomach. Do NOT watch up close to try and decipher what it is. Keep looking, you'll get it...






COPYRIGHT BY N.J.K

Wax on, wax off...

I have been single for a couple of years. Overall I don’t have a problem with this: I’d rather not be in a relationship than be stuck in an unhappy one. Being a happy social person I lead a happy social life, and have the freedom to do as I please, when I please.

Even better; I have all the freedom in the world to leave what I don’t feel like doing. This explains why the bathroom floor is a bit sticky, there's plenty of food on the stove top, the garden flourishes with flowery weeds, and periods go by when I haven't touched a vacuum cleaner for weeks. The state of the carpets isn’t exactly on my high priority list.

However, at times it is highly necessary to clear out the cobwebs. And in order to confidentally find a friendly helper to assist you this means your own rugged rug requires some rigorous reduction! Once you've comfortably settled into a steady relationship, such things don't tend worry you as much anymore. Smoothing everything out once every six weeks will suffice to avoid tripping over. In winter you don’t tend to bother at all.

But when you find yourself set out to make a positive impression, this is a matter of life or death! There's nothing worse than scoring a hot guy after having charmed the pants off him all evening, only to come to the dreadful realisation that your welcome-mat has vegetated into a neck breaking obstacle since the last time you mowed the lawn. For weeks you intended to do something about that, tomorrow.

Unfortunately when at the point of having downed two bottles of wine you tend to forget about minor details such as these. They slip your mind until the moment just before you (think you) are about to seductively and elegantly (stumbling and tripping over) drape your clothes off your body (extract your body from your clothes). Then sudden realisation hits of bushy bodily bits and this now seems to be the world's biggest disaster. From that moment on you are unable to focus on anything other than this mohair merkin, and how you are going to manage to make it disappear, or at least seem less severe.

In a blind panic several scenarios run through your mind, some more useless than others.

• Run to the bathroom for a quick shave in your inebriated state. Say you had to go for a long, difficult, rancid crap which then made you sick as an excuse for what’s taking you so long.

• “Accidentally” walk into every light in your proximity. You have, after all, had a bit too much to drink. Then ask him to wear gardening gloves because you find that a real turn on.

• A “Silence of the lambs” type tuck-away technique.

• Hide under the blankets and pretend you’re asleep by snoring loudly and drooling. Meanwhile send yourself an emergency text message from a distressed friend after which you wake up and leg it. He’ll understand and will be impressed with what a good friend you must be.

The stupidity of it all is that there generally is no reason for such agonising anxiety. The majority of men don’t exactly frown in disgust upon a few neglected millimetres of stubble. Male friends I have discussed this with admit they couldn’t care less, a few (GAY! GAY! GAY!)exceptions aside. But we do care, we care a lot! Weeks later we still cringe, hunched in shame when thinking back about stubbly shins and grizzly groins, and that that bloke surely must have noticed, and now what will he be thinking???

That is why as soon as you think you may have the slightest chance to pull a nice Brad, the hedge clippers come out to vigorously chop most of the bush back to the roots. Whatever is left over is most effectively removed with the help of hot wax. HOT WAX? Who the hell thought of that marvellous idea? Smear a hot sticky substance on the most vulnerable area of your body, and subsequently tear it off with a quick hard yank. Repeat that over and over until most of it’s gone. Now that you're enthusiastic and have really gotten into the swing of things, pull any missed hairs out with a pair of tweezers. That gets rid of the hedgehog for approximately two weeks if you're lucky. Two weeks, and then the whole torturous drama can be repeated.

The ironic aspect of the entire ritual is that when you have maintained yourself accordingly, you NEVER seem to run into anybody worthwhile inviting to your place for a cup of tea at 3 AM.

From this we can only draw one conclusion. When, as a pitiable lonesome sad single miss you intend to lure a helpful, hilarious, hunky hot mister into your den, the best chance you’ll have is to make sure you are as hairy as possible, wear your oldest, biggest, most ragged pair of knickers, unmatching smelly socks with holes in them, and preferably a few well proportioned zits on your arse. Because under those circumstances you'll be sure to meet a great guy (and most likely remain single for another while longer).