I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas - Lewis Black [19]
But I know I’d feel guilty about having gotten something in return for my charitable contribution. Probably more than the folks getting the charity. As if I’m not blessed enough to be in a position to help out, even in a small way.
What kind of greedy little pig have I become? What kind of greedy little pigs have so many of us become?
It’s truly shocking that we reward those in our culture who already have too much as it is. And that there are folks for whom there is no such thing as having too much. They believe that having too much—everything they ever want every moment of their lives—is their birthright. And it’s still not enough.
Better men than I have struggled to figure out how to live a life of goodness. I try, but I know I’m an utter failure at it. It’s a herculean task. I have, sadly, gotten used to soft sheets in the hotels I stay at and, heaven help me, I like good wine. I mean really good wine. And a lot of it. What’s more, I have people drive me around because I get road rage even when I am not driving. Yes, you are right: I have become a pussy. Of course, at this point in my life I probably wouldn’t give up any of the five-star amenities I now so grudgingly enjoy, but that is why I do benefits and write checks for charity.
Jesus, have you ever heard of anything more impotent than that? I tell you, if I didn’t have to live with me, I wouldn’t.
I’m also incapable of explaining the inequities in this world. But, truly, can anyone tell me how it is even close to fair that 1 percent of our society has the same amount of money as 90 percent? Seriously. That’s not only insane, it’s inhuman.
Are we that math illiterate? Is it that difficult to grasp, even at this season when we’re supposed to be attentive to goodwill toward others, that something is wrong somewhere in our system if that’s what’s happening in our world? How many times must we hear it before the inequality of it gets us off our asses and we do something about it? Maybe the other 9 percent who aren’t accounted for can help the rest of us out. Jesus Christ!
“Please, Mr. Black,” you might say here, “don’t take the name of the Son of God in vain.”
Really? I’ll bet even he’d use his name in vain if he wandered around our country and, say, spent a day in Detroit or New Orleans or among the migrant workers or in the urban decay that blights many of our nation’s cities. I think Jesus might even utter a couple of good goddamns himself.
“Now you’ve gone too far, Mr. Black,” you might say.
Have I? And how do you know that God doesn’t swear? Especially after taking a good look at the human race, it must be a part of his daily ritual.
Okay, enough with the moral arm wrestling. Now I have to get ready for the day ahead.
I have spent most of my last ten Christmases with two close friends of mine and their families and friends. I don’t remember where else I have spent Christmas Day, so no doubt I have already pissed off someone I’ve forgotten because I don’t remember shit. Mea fucking culpa. I don’t even know when the tradition of my going to visit friends on Christmas Day even started, or why. Probably because otherwise I might not get out of bed and my friends know what will get me up and moving. Food.
Don’t get me wrong: it’s a real joy to spend time with my friends. I get to drink wonderful wine and enjoy the exceptional meals they prepare. AND I DON’T HAVE TO DO SHIT! You can’t beat that.
I don’t know why I deserve this. Maybe my friends are really social workers assigned by the state to get me through the loneliness that has overtaken me.
Or maybe they just feel sorry for me.
“Poor Lewis, he really has no one but us. No one should be alone, not on Christmas Day. Not even a Jew with such obvious anger issues that he scares the piss out of children.”
So they set up a chair for me and put a place setting at the dinner table, just like we do for the