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What do I say to him if he meets me at the door, waiting for me to give him a present? “I didn’t get you anything for Christmas, Leo, because on the advice of my attorney I do not want to be held liable for your death”? I don’t need that kind of pressure during the holidays. Merry Christmas, indeed.

So I arrive, with nothing for the children. But I have made purchases for some of the adults. I know how to shop for them. They won’t choke on my gifts. Even the bottle of wine I will give to Willie’s brother, Rob, will be drunk responsibly. And even if he drinks the whole bottle by himself, the worst that will happen is he’ll write a very sad melody, weep uncontrollably for hours, and fall asleep in a heap on the floor. When he wakes up, his eyes will be a little puffy and his head may ache but, goddamnit, he will be alive.

There’s still time. I could stop and pick up something for the kids. Ah, fuck it, whatever I buy them will just be a disappointment. At least this way I am consistent. Consistency is better than a fruit basket. Or disappointment. Besides, they’ve got the great video game. I don’t.

Hell, let ’em choke on their resentment of me.

MEDITATIONS OF A JEWISH SANTA

Ihave always felt somewhat isolated at Christmastime, so it would never have crossed my mind to play Santa Claus. Ever. It’s not even a part that I was eager to play when it was offered to me. I mean, it would be a stretch for me, a big stretch—but you don’t grow as an actor playing Santa. It doesn’t lead to other roles.

“Did you see Lewis Black’s Santa? It was the definitive Santa. Breathtaking. I’d love to see him play other really fat jolly men. Who thought he had it in him?”

I certainly didn’t. Maybe it’s because I was raised Jewish, though not severely Jewish. We were the “No, we are not bringing a Christmas tree, Chanukah bush, or any other tree into this house” kind of Jewish. I don’t ever remember even asking my parents if we could have a tree. But even if I did, the answer would have been no. Those were the rules. (And that was about as Jewish as we got.)

Even as I’ve grown older and shared in the Christmases of my friends or my girlfriends’ families, I have never felt a part of the multitude of joys that seem to infuse the Christmas season. People can call it “the holiday season” all they want, but the feeling of “Christmas” has always passed me by—like the last empty cab in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“One really shouldn’t say ‘Merry Christmas,’ ” these idiots say. “To be truly politically and socially correct, one should say, ‘Happy Holidays.’ ”

Really? We’re awash in a series of problems that make this the most crippling decade I’ve lived through. We’re pounded with so much information every second of our lives that we have forgotten what the facts are. We’ve spent ten years bleeding ourselves dry as we fought extraneous wars that had nothing to do with reality, let our nation’s infrastructure and educational systems rot and crumble, bloated our health care system until it’s beyond repair and our economy has barely survived greed of epic proportions. So in the midst of all of this, we feel the urge to argue over the use of the word “Christmas” at Christmastime? ARE WE TOTALLY FUCK INSANE?

Does anybody honestly think that somehow this debate will change the world? Or make it a better place?

Let me make it easy on you: IT’S CHRISTMASTIME! You have the inalienable right as granted by our Constitution to Happy whatever you want. It makes no difference to life on this planet or the indifferent universe we find ourselves stumbling through if you spout “Merry Christmas” rather than “Happy Holidays.” You can say “Happy Horseshit” if you want to, if you’re not within earshot of children or adult crybabies.

As you can see, I don’t even have the time or the energy to muster a rational argument against such inexcusable bullshit.

Think about it another way: By putting the mute button on a simple “Merry Christmas,” you destroy the sense of separation that gives me such joy.