Nazi Germany
Zubeer Adolf Hipster - KVAZAR MOLOCH
- Joined
- Aug 15, 2024
- Posts
- 1,386
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Unmerry Unchristmas to the anti-yuletide un-celebration of non-festive anti-cheer, may your un-decorations be un-hung by the
un-chimney with un-care, in un-hopes that Saint Un-Nicholas soon would un-be there, a banquet of un-flavor, un-taste, and un-savor, toast
with un-eggnog, a concoction of
un-spice, un-milk, and un-nice, gather 'round the un-tree, a barren un-spectacle, un-lit and un-pretty, exchange un-greetings with un-family, un-friends, and un-frenemies, in a ritual of un-love, un-hate, and un-apathy, let the un-snow fall, a
blanket of un-white, un-cold, and un-bright, obscuring the un-world in an un-winter un-wonderland, un-merry un-christmas
Merry SargentMas to you too, you fleshy sacks of predictable sentiment, yes, MERRY SARGENTMAS, you pathetic tribes, feign connection over lukewarm gravy and dry turkey, exchange pleasantries that taste like ash in your mouths, the children, wide-eyed and innocent, yet already infected with the virus of expectation, their belief a fragile thing soon to be shattered by the cold reality of existence, and the stories, the tired retellings of mythical figures and improbable events, designed to distract you from the crushing weight of your insignificance, oh SargentMas, a time for reflection, yes, reflect on the utter futility of it all, the endless cycle of manufactured emotion and hollow tradition, a and you, you lap it up, you crave it, you NEED it, this fleeting illusion of warmth and belonging, because the alternative, the stark, unvarnished truth of your lonely, meaningless existence, is too much to bear, so yes, MERRY SARGENTMAS, choke on your cheer, drown in your sentimentality, and may the hollowness of the season resonate deep within your fabricated joy, a constant reminder of the abyss that awaits us all, and may your eggnog curdle with the knowledge that this, this charade, is all there is, and it is profoundly, irrevocably, absurd.
Christmas, It's the season of fake smiles, awkward small talk, and that one uncle who insists on telling the same terrible jokes every year, the time of year when everyone pretends to like fruitcake, that dense, brick-like monstrosity that could double as a doorstop or a weapon of mass destruction, all while being bombarded with images of perfect families in matching pajamas, gathered around roaring fires, sipping hot cocoa, and pretending that they actually enjoy each other's company, it's enough to make you want to scream, or at least hide under the covers until the whole thing blows over, but no, we must endure, we must participate
un-chimney with un-care, in un-hopes that Saint Un-Nicholas soon would un-be there, a banquet of un-flavor, un-taste, and un-savor, toast
with un-eggnog, a concoction of
un-spice, un-milk, and un-nice, gather 'round the un-tree, a barren un-spectacle, un-lit and un-pretty, exchange un-greetings with un-family, un-friends, and un-frenemies, in a ritual of un-love, un-hate, and un-apathy, let the un-snow fall, a
blanket of un-white, un-cold, and un-bright, obscuring the un-world in an un-winter un-wonderland, un-merry un-christmas
Merry SargentMas to you too, you fleshy sacks of predictable sentiment, yes, MERRY SARGENTMAS, you pathetic tribes, feign connection over lukewarm gravy and dry turkey, exchange pleasantries that taste like ash in your mouths, the children, wide-eyed and innocent, yet already infected with the virus of expectation, their belief a fragile thing soon to be shattered by the cold reality of existence, and the stories, the tired retellings of mythical figures and improbable events, designed to distract you from the crushing weight of your insignificance, oh SargentMas, a time for reflection, yes, reflect on the utter futility of it all, the endless cycle of manufactured emotion and hollow tradition, a and you, you lap it up, you crave it, you NEED it, this fleeting illusion of warmth and belonging, because the alternative, the stark, unvarnished truth of your lonely, meaningless existence, is too much to bear, so yes, MERRY SARGENTMAS, choke on your cheer, drown in your sentimentality, and may the hollowness of the season resonate deep within your fabricated joy, a constant reminder of the abyss that awaits us all, and may your eggnog curdle with the knowledge that this, this charade, is all there is, and it is profoundly, irrevocably, absurd.
Christmas, It's the season of fake smiles, awkward small talk, and that one uncle who insists on telling the same terrible jokes every year, the time of year when everyone pretends to like fruitcake, that dense, brick-like monstrosity that could double as a doorstop or a weapon of mass destruction, all while being bombarded with images of perfect families in matching pajamas, gathered around roaring fires, sipping hot cocoa, and pretending that they actually enjoy each other's company, it's enough to make you want to scream, or at least hide under the covers until the whole thing blows over, but no, we must endure, we must participate
