The Kilroy All-Star Christmas Spectacular: All I Want For Christmas Are Chapters
How my day is going so far (presented in bullet points because I want to work in bullet points more):
Leigh Ann has apparently fallen off the face of the Earth and I have no way of reaching her.
I took down a Herpezoid who tried to jump me in the park.
Another Herpezoid dressed as Santa attacked shoppers and Tony and I had to take it down.
A nursing home was attacked. Not cool. Old people should be off limits from Herpezoids unless those old people are assholes. Some are. It's just science.
More Herps are popping up all over the freaking place dressed as Santas are terrorizing our not quite idyllic small town.
It's only 7:00 and I haven't eaten so I'm hangry.
"You better watch out," the bag of Herpezoid yuck taunts, "you better not cry. You better not shout. I'm telling you why. Herpezoids are in town and kicking your human ass."
"Shut up," Tony barks, "or I will throw you out the window."
"It's working!" This alien is staring to sound like some mad scientist from a bad movie English dubbing doesn't even come close to matching the mouth movements. "Our plan is working!"
"What are you talking about?" Tony's voice is edgy and angry. "Why should I listen to a baggie of vomit?"
"Easy, dude." I touch his forearm. "Chill. I think I know what's going on. He is trying to piss us off. Get under our skin so we'll turn on each other. If he annoys the shit out of us, which apparently which apparently is his spiritual gift, he can take away our Christmas spirit. Let's be nice."
We sit in silence for several seconds not knowing where to begin. Knowing I have to be nice is harder than I thought. Plus, I don't want it sound forced or insincere. The longer this silence persists the more I question my nature. Am I shitty? Am I an asshole? Do I not care about my fellow man? Can I not just say something nice to my friend, the guy I've known since fourth grade?
"You have straight teeth," I tell him. "I've always admired that about you."
"I like your shirt," he replies. "Are those donuts?"
"Yes! It's a shirt with donuts on it! How cool is that?"
"It's pretty cool. I don't know anyone who has a shirt donuts on it and I know that is an important thing for you."
We smile at one another. This is better. We are foiling the Herp's plan. I reach over and turn my A Very Kilroy Playlist on. Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You" comes on and my Pavlovian response is to bob my head to the peppy beat.
"Oh, god," Tony moans. "Turn it off. Seriously. I hate this song."
"What? No. It's charming."
"It's annoying as hell!"
"It's damn infectious and lovely!"
"Infectious like a mutated flu strain!"
"You take that back!"
"I said what I said!" He shifts in his seat, staring me down. He is the human version of an all caps comment on a social media post. As he speaks, his face reddens and his eyes are wild and unhinged.
"THAT SONG IS RELENTLESS! IT'S EVERYWHERE THIS TIME OF YEAR! YOU CAN'T GET AWAY FROM IT! IT STALKS YOU, HUNTS YOU DOWN, PINS YOU TO THE FLOOR AND FORCES YOU TO LISTEN! IT'S A WAR CRIME! THAT SONG IS A MANIFESTATION OF THE ANTICHRIST!"
He turns off the music and I feel the need to defend Mariah Carey.
"I think that is a gross overreaction to something meant to bring people joy. You're out of line."
"Mariah Carey is out of line."
"I think her feelings would be hurt. You owe her an apology."
"You don't know even know who she is!"
"Yes, I do!" "Name one!"
Now I'm speaking in all caps.
"ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU!"
"Besides that one, dum-dum!"
Checkmate. He knows I can't. My lack of musical knowledge beyond 1991 is alarming to most every person who learns of it. I'm working on it, but it's like eating right and going to the gym. It's a nice a thought but I prefer the comfort of pizza and sitting in a recliner. Exposure to more contemporary music sounds fun, but also like a lot of work. I will retreat to the '80s, thank you very much.
"You know, I put this special Christmas playlist together so I could learn to appreciate a greater variety of music. You are poo-pooing it and I don't appreciate it. You're a dirty pooderhead."
"Delete this song or you're a dirty pooderhead."
The van falls darkly silent except for the menacing giggle of the Herpezoid who is winning.