Your car is stupid.

My wife has this way of asking me what I want for Christmas and then talking me out of it. I don't know how she does it, but it happens every year.
Betsy: "What do you want for Christmas, Matt?"
Matt: "A Kindle, Betsy."
B: "Do you really think you'll use it?"
M: "I do think that. That is a thing that I think."
B: "What will you do with all of your old books? Don't you think you'll end up spending more on e-books than you would normally spend on regular books? Won't you miss the feel and smell and the intimacy of a regular book?"
M: "You're right. I guess I just want underwear."
B: "Do you really think you'll use it?"

It's one of our Christmas traditions.

Another tradition we like to observe is not knowing how to spell Hanukkah, Chanukah, or Chanuka. It's like throwing a hand-grenade into a room full of babies. There's no right way to go about it. Not my greatest analogy, but that's okay. At least I'm trying. But not very hard.

I do so love Christmas. I love the snow and the obscene lighting displays and being incredulous when people buy extravagant electronic gifts for their preschool children. I love the baking and the music and the terrific sweaters. I love the magic in the eyes of my children. I love the thought of families everywhere getting up early, stumbling downstairs, marveling over the plate of cookie crumbs and the empty milk glass, and then ripping into lovingly wrapped packages.

But I effing hate people who put antlers on their cars.

Thank you,
      Matt Beers