With every season of good will
and expression of joy to the world
I wish it was the last,
less because I want the world to end
and more because I can't cope
with the brain-dead cliches
that media manufactures think
are a fit commercial celebration
for the living to own the event.
The flatness that follows the kitsch and the empty 'hale fellow and well met' type greetings hollow me out, beyond belief.
What I would like to read is the Christmas science fiction story where Martians mimic what rich earthlings do at Christmas, and badly mangle the theology and get the event utterly wrong.
The nearest to such an account I have found is in the following unsentimental work by William Burroughs 'The Junky's Christmas'...