The season is wonderful in theory...until one ventures out to partake in the tradition of merriment & revelry, gift giving & receiving & overall warmth towards humanity when big fat wimmins in pink lycra storm the Wal-Mart in search of Elmo Ruxpin & the PLaystation 360 with their 3 stinky whiny screaming brats in tow & the husband mumbling something about Wild Turkey while running up a credit card bill that would shame Bill Gates (and then paying for food with food stamps). Then one wanders to the local festival of lights only to find the fuck behind you hasn't the sense to turn off his/her out of alignment headlights. Trying to stay with the spirit, you go in search of a formerly living tree that costs more than your first car in which to place the years of collected memorabilia of Dale Earnhardt Jr & Santas from unheard of coutries.
Then, just as you truly begin feeling the warmth of the season, the presents get opened & it's all over save the shouting.
Now I'm depressed. Is the retreat ready yet?