5 Things about Christmas that suck when you don't have kids

Christmas sucks when you don't have kids. We all know Christmas sucks because you aren't a kid, but when you don't have children it sucks even more. It is perhaps the one day of the year where I am envious of my fatherly friends and I regret that I didn't knock up Mary Applewhite back in the eighth grade. 

3 am in the morning is a time traditionally assigned for the delivery of newspapers and donuts and also for the frolicking of the underbelly of society. The "other world" had existed on it's own and uninterrupted until the advent of the midnight sale. In keeping with the American spirit of life liberty and the pursuit of cheap shit made in China, corporate America created Black Friday.

On this night, millions of frenzied shoppers literally stampede over each other in order to buy cheap DVD players and the years hottest toy so that they will not have to endure the unimaginable task of shopping at a normal hour over the next month with people who actually have gainful employment and sensibility.

In as much as I would like to fault them, I did the same thing back in 1987 for tickets to see A Flock of Seagulls.  Perhaps I secretly would love to be crammed into a raucous crowd of obese mothers prepared to battle to the end for the coveted Wedding Barbie as I lack that kind of passion in my life. Now I am resigned to sit in traffic at two am wishing it was simply a DUI checkpoint and not just the line for Toy's R Us that has backed up the freeway. Adding insult to injury is all of the bumper stickers declaring what magnanimous feats their children have accomplished in their short time on earth, as if their unrivaled determination to snatch the last Battle Blade GI Joe has contributed to their honor students success. But then who am I to judge. I still idling behind them in my 2000 Explorer and the only purpose my Bush 2000 bumper sticker serves is to cover up my expired registration. I have no little one to stampede for, I am just trying to get home to watch ESPN.

The phone usually starts beeping around 8:30 am. Nothing warms the heart like a mass " Merry Christmas" text. Every friend with a kid and a cell phone feels the need to send these spam sentiments out after putting a bike together and trying on their new gloves and socks. I like to spend Christmas morning like Sharon Stone in Casino:in a drugged state of denial/depression with curtains drawn and a sleep mask on. I suppose if I were a parent I would want to be up at the crack of dawn enjoying the gleaming faces of the children ripping open their presents and screaming with delight. It must be uplifting to witness the ten seconds of pure glee as the Zhu Zhu hamster that was bought off craigslist for 5 times the retail price chips and squeaks across the coffee table before being thrown aside and the next must have present is opened.

For us men with no spawn it is entirely different. I wake up the muffled sound of my alarm clock beeping because I forgot to adjust the settings for Jesus day. I am thankful that the noise is muted by the eight pounds of dirty laundry piled on top. After another twenty minutes of pleading with GOD to let me sleep at least until the following day or until the nearest Hooters opens, I check my cell phone to see if anyone bothered to actually call or text something other than a retarded variation of "happy holidays".

Because I have no children, I am always issued a travel itinerary as if I am the carny in charge of weed whacking the carnival grounds ahead of arrival. I have to be in seven different places at four different times with nine separate assignments. I must load and unload folding chairs, find a store that cells wheat germ, walk my sisters dog, run back home and get a 1/2" socket and am even expected to " not look like a homeless crackhead" when I finally arrive at my parents house. Meanwhile everyone who has kids gets to relax at home and can duck every chore by having to make sure one of the little scapegoats doesn't choke on a Buzz Lightyear helmet or impale a cousin with a Velcro tipped lawn dart.

I imagine how enjoyable Christmas would be if had the the luxury of being able to stay home and not have to get my Aunt Pegs car out of the mud. I would be delighted to be woken up by the shrills of children after discovering Santa had eaten the cookies left out the night before and had forgotten to flush the toilet. The day would be much more joyful wearing my own pajamas, sitting in my own lazyboy and my chestnuts roasting by my own kerosene fire.

Buying gifts for women is a delicate endeavor. We are expected to remember details that seem trivial during everyday conversations that are vital to the personal aspect that women cherish when it comes to presents. I happily attempted to buy a sexy bra for my ex in Victoria's Secret but when asked what type, size or cup she was I had no answer. A survey of the other women in the store reminded me that A: I knew nothing about bras beyond removing , and B: women shopping for bras don't really want to discuss their breasts with a stranger staring at their tits drinking a Slurpee.

This is where a child would come in handy. If I had a kid I could have them present the gifts that I pick out, pay for and wrap but they claim to have chosen. The crotchless panties will seem much less perverted when I whisper " She liked them for the color and the frilly lace" and shrug my shoulders. I could then get away with not remembering minute details like her size, favorite color, initials or birthstone. If the kid is cute enough I could even pawn off a gift certificate for breast implants by explaining " Mary really wants you to feel as pretty as the other moms at school" , again distancing myself with the shoulder shrug.

But as it is I am left to fend for myself. I can not blame my last minute, thoughtless, selfish gifts on the product of a night of heavy drinking, poor judgement and fantastic lying.

Children are the ultimate eject button. In any uncomfortable situation or never ending event, a kid provides an unchallengeable excuse. As it stands now I am always relegated to KP duty, trash collection, pooper scooping and chauffeur. Everyone with kids comes up with some reason that they have to leave, right then, or catastrophe is sure to ensue. Their never seems to be an instance of colic during the appetizers, no sign of meningitis when the gifts are being exchanged and no symptom of Hungarian skin rash when the pie is served but as soon the first dish is put into the sink every parent finds a cause to evacuate the premises as if the ghost of Christmas past had just taken a dump on the Santa Claus centerpiece. Before I know it I am standing in front of an overflowing sink with cranberry sauce and some sort of cheese spread with nuts chunked all over my shirt. Meanwhile all of the parents have loaded their kids, presents and leftovers in to their awaiting minivans as if they were the rehearsing for a Katrina like catastrophe.

If only I had that luxury. A set of twins would allow me excuse myself moments after stuffing the last possible ounce of pecan pie into my fat face declaring that " the boys are tired and rambunctious" even though they are dead asleep under the table. If I had a little girl with rosacea I could pound back a few mimosa's, clean off a turkey leg like Fred Flintstone and clog up the toilet before astutely and conveniently noticing that Mary's face has become read and declare " She is having a reaction to the succotash!, I must get her to her medicine!" I could then apologise for not staying to help clean up and for tracking dog shit through the house while I herd the family into the truckster.

At present my dry womb has left me no such escape. I must endure the day to it's ultimate finality, regardless of my own soberness or lazyiness. I am not dismissed until the last bow is removed from the torn wrapping paper and saved for future use. I can not leave until long after the last spot of burnt creamed spinach is chiseled from the pot that won't fit in the dishwasher and my day is not over until I scrub the muddy footprints out of the carpet that I left after freeing Aunt Pegs Chrysler from the swampy front yard.

Merry Christmas!