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Journal Of Precognitive Memories


The Gospel of Wealth: Towards a New Generation of American Consumership By Jim Chaffee
Rick Perry leads Baal worshippers in prayer meeting By Pig Bodine M.Sc., Ph.D., BM2, BEM, MAD, MDMA
A Film Too Far: The Battle of the Strait of Hormuz By Jim Chaffee
Maurice Stoker quasireviews The Vicious Circulation of Dr. Catastrophe: A Polemical Ensemble by Kane X. Faucher By Maurice Stoker
Boozer Allan Hamilton Justifies the Tea Party By Boozer Allan Hamilton
Keith Olbermann Freaks Out Pig Bodine By Pig Bodine
Saving California: Secession and the Reagan Scheme By Pig Bodine
Maurice Stoker on Tom Bradley's Even the Dog Won't Touch Me By Maurice Stoker
Two Glad Tidings from The Marshall By Marshall Smith
Sarah Palin's Party of God By Maurice Stoker
Double-Ended Dildos Manufactured at Cosmodrome By Kane X. Faucher
At the Airport By Tom Bradley
Building the Perfect Weapon By Thomas Sullivan
CNBC Wins Pequod Institute Award for Excellence in High School Journalism By Pig Bodine, M.Sc., Ph.D., BM2, BEM, MAD, MDMA
Pig Bodine's Funky Financial Cooze Network Topological Finance for Aging Bald Dudes By Pig Bodine, M.Sc., Ph.D., BM2, BEM, MAD, MDMA
Un Mensaje Navideño del Director General Por Sandra Ramos Rossi
Christmas Parades are a Deadly Derangement of Culture and other Seasonal Asides by Kane X. Faucher
Euphotan, Protoplasmic Flash, and their Properties by Nail, with commentary by Chevy the Scientist
Suggested reading, Universitatis Merdalina Literature 734.5, Advanced Topics in Mathematical Literature: Pseudo-British/American/Pidgin English Literature, Tensor Products of Novels and Poetry for Quasi-Conformal Plagiarism in Modern Genre and its Relationship to Sexual Identity and Morphisms by Maurice Stoker
The Unexamined Life in Hell: Peregrinations Across The Diagnosis by Alan Lightman by Maurice Stoker
Presidential Politics in the Year of the Toad by Boozer Allan Hamilton Ph.D.
An Eleventh Tonkin Scenario by Donald Dickerson
The Second Annual Howard Littlefield Boosterism Award for Economic Forecasting Awarded to Boozer Allan Hamilton by Pig Bodine, M.Sc., Ph.D., BM2, BEM, MAD, MDMA
Maurice Stoker On Writing a Prize Winning Best Seller by Maurice Stoker
¿Study says lack of talent? by Pig Bodine M.S., Ph.D., BM2, BEM, MAD, MDMA
US Cracks International Terrorist Ring by Maurice Stoker
Pig Bodine Solves the US Immigration and Education Dilemmas in One Blow by Pig Bodine M.S., Ph.D., BM2, BEM, MAD, MDMA
Maurice Stoker Anent Two Errors in Thomas Pynchon’s Mason and Dixon by Maurice Stoker
Full PAM Archive
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Christmas Parades are a Deadly Derangement of Culture and other Seasonal Asides

by Kane X. Faucher

Uneeda Biscuit, Bourbon Street circa 1978

During the period of late November to early December, an entire community becomes rapt by the trappings of the Christmas spirit in full commercial swing. And while families get together to yank the old Xmas decorations from behind a wall of empty whiskey bottles accumulated in the pre and post-Yule season, there comes an equally rote phenomenon that takes place perhaps much more traumatic than the family fistfight that invariably breaks loose during the decorating of the tree, or the explosive eggnog vomit that projected itself from Uncle Larry while he tried to impress all and sundry with his new tango lessons on the dinner table while a few sheets to the proverbial wind. That phenomenon, as it occurs in metropolitan cities, towns, villages, hamlets, or any place just big enough to have a major traffic route blocked off to the raging chagrin of motorists, is the Christmas parade.

According to my statistics, which are neither factual nor accurate, it is estimated that there are over 213 Christmas parade related deaths per annum worldwide, making it just slightly more of a lethal public threat than a plague of ladybugs, but slightly less than attempts to use jumper cables to thaw the Christmas turkey. The event is rather disconcerting at the very least. I distinctly recall having moved to this small "city" a few years back and, in a midday nap to relax my inflamed liver after a noble self-sacrificing research venture where I studied the effects of early morning vodka drinking and its effects on general temperament, I awoke to hear the sounds of drums and looked out my window to see the streets festooned and veritably thronged with people. My immediate thought was that the League of Christian Spectrum Dominance had asserted their will and this was the revolution. In my half-asleep state, a cold panic rippled through my alcohol-logged body and I started thinking in that survival state where one looks at which valuable personal possessions are transportable in the minimum of time, and looking in the kitchen to see what cutlery may pass as a weapon for personal defense. Upon eventual sobriety, I took another glance out my window to note that this was not the revolution stirring up this sleepy city of Jesus, but rather I caught the sight of grown men and women dressed as elves thumping on oversized toy drums in marching formation. The Crusade against Kane would happen on another day, or so I am told. So, can you picture a mass of people huddling together in sub-zero temperatures to ogle an army of people in ridiculous leotard outfits riding on colorful papier-mâché vehicles? Can you picture Oprah with infantry?

Grievously, I can. Essentially—since anything remotely related to a season of festivity is to speak in highly over-essentializing terms—the purpose of experience the ass-numbing spectacle of a Christmas parade is to wait long enough for the in-person money shot of the arrival of a big man in red with a large beard, a kind-uncle laugh, a big belly, and who has the propensity for equally doling out rations once a year to every snot-nose that has abided by the moral code. In fact, it is exactly like a communist event in the old bloc, but instead of the proud display of military might of missiles, there are wreaths of mistletoe. And, as far as I can tell, there are no plainclothes elves in overcoats lurking in the crowd eavesdropping to hear you utter ideologically blasphemous statements so that you may be buttonholed and sent to work shaving tree bark with your teeth in some cozy out-of-the-way gulag. But I could be wrong, and I'm sure there are plenty of positions available in the arctic workhouse.

Uneeda Biscuit, Bourbon and Dumaine circa 1978

So, what we are presented herewith is the cult of a man named Santa Claus, a northern European saint bearing no resemblance to the rotund Ubu Roi type being whose globally recognized uniform was designed by Coca-Cola. Just like Jesus and his Golgotha chic. Upon further research, I discovered some disturbing elements of that which makes up the mythology of Santa Claus. Apparently, it is said that once a year he manages to jack every home in the world, evade home security systems, and fit his corpulent form magically into every chimney to "deliver presents to all the good girls and boys." Those with central heating are just shit out of luck, apparently, but if you live in a cottage, then you can expect some form of deposit from the jolly old fat man. Santa commutes by means of a flying sleigh pulled by flying reindeer, no doubt a Soviet genetic experiment that was abandoned due to a lack of espionage utility. It is my theory that Santa has mastered the manufacture of various composites to make himself and his vehicle entirely invisible to radar lest fighter jets be deployed to knock him out of the sky in a blazing streak hurtling toward an Idaho farm. The reports of his mileage must mean, especially during our current fuel crisis, that Santa uses an alternative fuel source to pilot his flying sleigh. What is rather confusing to me is that Santa does not seem to generate any revenue from his labor, which leaves open what exactly he does the rest of the year. Without any foreseeable source of income, I do wonder how he maintains such a full figured form, and one may also wonder as a dietary segue if he has cholesterol problems.

It is said to be customary to leave out a snack for Santa as he rides about the world delivering goodies that are no doubt manufactured in Indonesian sweatshops. The usual suggested fare are milk and cookies, but if I were an elderly fat deliveryman operating in arctic conditions, I'd (beyond seriously considering a career change) much rather prefer the bracing comfort of a fifth of whiskey and a gram of cocaine. Plus, I would think after the millionth serving of milk and cookies, I'd be tossing said cookies in a projectile rage of festive ad nauseam. Perhaps his predilection for children should also raise alarums and excursions in our moral panic consciousness, since it would be very hard to prosecute someone who seems to have an address that is outside the legal jurisdiction of any country.