It is way too easy to go off on the holidaze. Most of it has been ground into the pavement under the heels of power shoppers before but that is not stopping me from mincing it even finer with the Cuisinart of my cynical heart.

I went to the mall. I know! I know! What the hell was I doing going to Plastic Soul Land? Well, it was the best bet for getting a certain gift, and if I spent 3 more seconds on the roads the old T-Bird would suddenly become the Avenging Raptor Of Death for the next person who couldn't pull their fingers out of their nose long enough to actually signal their careening slide into my lane. For me to survive the mall -- or more to the point, for those around me to survive me going to the mall -- I have to have a specific target. If I entered those shallow halls of cash filters and just roamed about contemplating the rampant consumerism and guilt-induced buying frenzy substituting for the celebration of the birth of the last truly nice person with a chance to change anything for the better but was instead nailed to a tree, the bile of bitterness would rise like a turd in a Jacuzzi until I would find myself standing over the broken corpse of the last person who stopped in the middle of the walkway directly in front of me to answer their cell phone for the 13th time, a battered Hickory Farms Summer Sausage in my twitching hands. In this case it was some kind of WSU festooned garment for my brother. I knew where to find it. I had my plan. It was a lateral assault. Moving in a serpentine fashion through the south entrance I wove my way through the mooing consumers directly to the entrance to the Bon Marche'. Donning a bio protection mask I boldly charged through the first barricade, the Fragrance department which has all the appeal of being buried alive under a moaning mound of French whores after the Navy leaves on Bastille Day. Diving headlong down the escalator to the Men's Sportswear section I shoulder roll under the "Pro Sports Logo Sweatpants" Racks, unfortunately my brother doesn't need any more formal wear. Skulking between the racks I happen upon my goal: A polar fleece reversible coat with the WSU Cougars logo. But is it right for my only brother? Would he really appreciate the gift? Is it the gift that he will treasure? Is it on the clearance rack? Damn right it is. Snatching the booty, then grabbing the coat, I lope to the checkout counter where a bored Dennis Rodman rings up the purchase. He has nothing better to do. Now to escape. Up the escalator straight into a mass of plastic waving mono-lobed shoppers. Relying on hand to hand combat and major backhand wedgies I cross to the deadly gas chamber of perfume again where I stiff arm a woman wearing so much jewelry that she emits sparks, igniting a Sales rep for Eau de Merde into a ball of fire with a concussion that voids bowels for 2O meters. Taking advantage of the confusion and the slick floor I plunge to the street clutching my package like the skids of the last chopper out of Saigon.

Just once I want to see the people who claim that Christmas(tm) is a religious holiday to skip the gifts and spend December worshiping the birthday boy and living like He(tm) would. No charge cards, no judgements, no F#$*&ing Furbies, just an honest feeling of goodwill and acceptance for their fellow protoplasm.

Right. And I also want an audience with the Easter Bunny.

OK, let's just get down to it. I think we need to follow the lead of the Japanese on this one. If you ever want to hold up a mirror to all that is cheesy in America, go to Tokyo. The Japanese have this incredible ability to grasp to their collective bosom all that is tacky with America and, again right in character, do it better. Just look at what they have done with photography, golf and just being a tourist! Americans have NOTHING on the Japanese in the Tourist Olympics. The Japanese are Power Tourists and can cram more sightseeing into a weekend in Des Moines than we can in a month in Paris. The same goes for Christ's Mass, only more so. I have a friend who spent Christmas in Tokyo. He said it puts Macys to shame with all the kitsch ( Latin for "cheesy holiday crap made out of paper and cheap plastic: See also Ivana Trump"). But the jewel in the crown, the symbol which throws the American Christmas into the midst of a 100 megawatt Rudolph Nose Spotlight and Bug Zapper (tm), was proudly displayed on a corporate building -- Santa nailed to the cross. If a better symbol of American Xmas exists, I don't care.

There, I said it. I feel better.