Cheap thoughtless gifts, living room UFC, hopeless self-pity and more!
Two days left until Christmas, one for those of you stuck on the other side of the dateline. Get all your shopping done? Looking forward to an awkward day spent with family? All excited to celebrate the birth of the son of god?
No? Neither am I, but that’s okay, because I don’t celebrate Christmas. I celebrate Chronica, a holiday which appeared to me in a dream slightly over a decade ago, and which the wife and I have been observing ever since. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating, Chronica is not a portmanteau of Christmas and Hanukkah. The phonetic similarities are pure coincidence.
Did you know, I’ve never had a Jewish friend? How weird is that? I’ve never had a black friend, either, but I grew up a surf crazed little grom in a series of Southern California coastal suburbs, then moved to Hawaii, so that makes a little sense. There aren’t a ton of black people in Hawaii, and the SoCal police do an effective, if terribly racist, job of keeping brothers East of PCH.
I once was pulled over for playing Tupac while crossing that line into Manhattan Beach, on my way home from a Christmas party at one of my father in law’s car dealerships. Cop flashed his lights, then strolled up to the car, saw my lily white complexion, and told me to have a nice night. I’m definitely playing life on easy mode, the pig didn’t even run my name or plates. If he had he’d have seen that I had a warrant out for my arrest thanks to some confusion surrounding a seat belt ticket I’d received a couple months prior.
But we’re here to talk about Chronica, the best holiday around. Why worship a hippy Jew who wouldn’t stop running his mouth when you can spend a day focused on yourself? Chronica is not about love, or family, or togetherness. It’s a celebration of the “I,” a day to let your id run free, unrestrained by the daily necessity of cooperation with your fellow man.
I once was pulled over for playing Tupac. Cop flashed his lights, then strolled up to the car, saw my lily white complexion, and told me to have a nice night. I’m definitely playing life on easy mode, the pig didn’t even run my name or plates. If he had he’d have seen that I had a warrant out for my arrest thanks to some confusion surrounding a seat belt ticket I’d received a couple months prior.
It’s also a living holiday, constantly changing to better reflect your wants. The only true Chronica tradition is its insistence that tradition is stupid and leads always to stagnation.
Chronica morning is greeted with the smoking of the trees. No screaming children happily tearing through gifts, no tree, no lights (fire hazards, both), no childlike sense of wonder. Chronica, at its root, is a day like any other, and is thus best viewed through a haze of intoxication.
Once you’re well and truly lit, it’s time to sing the Chronica song. The song must be improvised, a capella, and lays out what you’ll do to anyone who crosses you in the coming year. Think of it as a sort of verbal haka. Your goal is to intimidate those around you, ensuring they’ll succumb to your will until the next Chronica rolls around.
The head of the household challenges all comers to a winner take all, no holds barred, fight for supremacy in the middle of the living room. Because I’m, literally, twice my wife’s size, and watch a lot of UFC, I’m pretty much an elite level fighter and have never been defeated!
Right about now is a good time your first cocktail of the day. Usually mimosas, though the postman dropped off a bottle of Cognac yesterday (thanks Derek!) so this year is gonna feature something a little harder.
Next is the Chronica erotic dance, wherein you demonstrate your virility through sexy moves. Pelvic thrusting and grunting is encouraged, though not required.
Then the Chronica feast! Oh, the splendor! All your favorite foods, eaten with abandon, until you can’t jam another morsel down your gullet. The feast will vary for each person, but it must include Chronica sandwiches (bacon on white bread with extra mayo, smashed flat) and a gallon of store bought chocolate milk.
Now that you’re high, stuffed with food, and more than a little drunk, it’s time for the feats of strength. I’ve, obviously, stolen the idea from an episode of Seinfeld, but it’s good fun. The head of the household challenges all comers to a winner take all, no holds barred, fight for supremacy in the middle of the living room. Because I’m, literally, twice my wife’s size, and watch a lot of UFC, I’m pretty much an elite level fighter and have never been defeated!
A proper recitation should leave your “loved ones” mired in a pool of hopeless self pity. In true Chronica majesty the point is to make yourself feel better by knocking the emotional legs out from under those around you.
No rematches are allowed, so the current head of household must resort to outright viciousness in order to defend his, or her, position in the pecking order. A loss cannot be avenged until next Chronica.
On to the recitation of demands. Each person has the opportunity to tell those gathered the ways in which they failed over the course of the prior year, and lay out a series of outlandish expectations for the next. A proper recitation should leave your “loved ones” mired in a pool of hopeless self pity. In true Chronica majesty the point is to make yourself feel better by knocking the emotional legs out from under those around you.
Penultimate is the giving of the bribe. Rather than give gifts to those you love, the bribe is given to ensure a person doesn’t come after you in the coming year. Mind games are encouraged. You can give cheap, thoughtless, gifts to establish dominance, even make the ultimate statement, “I don’t need any of you people,” by buying lavish gifts for yourself, alone.
Children get nothing, due to their weak stature and inability to seek redress for slights. It is recommended that you shower gifts on any teenagers present, as their pubescent strength, combined with a total inability to grasp consequences, makes them especially terrifying in the context of Chronica.
Finally, it’s time to begin drinking in earnest and make a series of slurred, increasingly unintelligible, obligatory holiday phone calls to friends and family.
Chronica is complete when you’ve passed out drunk on the couch, typically around 3 PM.
