Dear Rhinestone Cowboy...

Dear Rhinestone Cowboy,

This post is for you.

We have come along way in the years that we’ve known each other. There was the awkward small group communication class that we wasted away our lives in listening to the old geezer Shamo. There were the countless intramural beatdowns I received by the loathed Team Texas. And of course, there was the highlight of my life (along with leaving Roy) the day that you and I were introduced to Miss Piggy, my jezebel ham sandwich princess.

Yes we have had some good times Rhinestone Cowboy a.k.a. B.E.P. Longhorn a.k.a. Robin’s Bob Cracthit (I give you that third blogalias for this post alone). With those nicknames being said, I will say their needs to be an intervention in our relationship. Something has to change. A compromise must occur if you and I are ever going to remain friends, even on Facebook.

For full effect tune in to FM100.3 on your radio any time of the day from November 1-January 10 and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. It is the tunes being strummed on those airwaves that lead me to this attempted intrusion.

Rhinestone Cowboy, we all know that I’m a grumpy bear (at least that’s what the Glee President calls me these days.) I am the walking bah humbug who scowls whenever the holiday marqueed by the fat man in a red jump suit rolls around. I am not the biggest fan of gingerbread houses, awkward caroling, and insightbowl.com games littering ESPN. The holiday season just isn’t my holiday.

Don’t ask me why this is. Maybe it’s because I had some traumatic events as a child around this time of the year. Maybe it was the lumps of coal that anchored my stockings. Maybe it was the fact that because I lived in an estrogen-encased habitat I received Maxi-Pads instead of baseball cards for presents. Maybe my biological father is actually Ebenezer Scrooge. For all I know this just isn’t my favorite few months, and I try to get through them as swift as possible.

With that being said, I ask you, no, I plead with you. Nay, I bow before you on my knees with my hands in prayerful position, puppy-saucer eyes watering, mouth corners drooping, and beg for your mercy to please, for the love of everything that is sacred to the ethical treatment of humanity, please stop playing your Christmas music on Pandora.

I know that I am 327 miles away from our grandeur of an office right now, but honestly Rhinestone Cowboy, I can hear the swan song serenades drifting northbound I-15 all the way into my subconscious earlobes nearly 24 hours a day, and it’s all because of the tradition that you tried to instill in our office last November 1, when you tuned into that festive Pandora station just for some holiday gratification.

Honestly, the Christmas season is a great time to share memories, repair relationships, and enjoy the company of friends, family, and fruitcake, but just because those events are just around the corner doesn’t mean that we have to listen to Mariah Carey singing “All I Want for Christmas is You” over and over again. I really am purged to madness when I hear “Feliz Navidad” playing on November 8th. And trust me, I can only take one more verse of Alvin and the Chipmunks singing “Christmas Don’t Be Late” or else I might go ballistic on those rodents.

Look, I know that you have taught me a lot in our years together. I developed a respect for the Cowboy that you knew in south Texas. I have taken your advice to pay off my medical debts. I really have felt a strong connection as I have thrown some monstrous outlet passes to you during noon ball. And one day, if I ever find the Mrs., we might even “hang out” with you and Mrs. B.E.P. Longhorn after work. But please, oh dear Rhinestone Cowboy my friend, please for the love of my departure into an asylum, change your Pandora station to something else, at least until December 1st.

Respectfully yours,

Ebenezer Swamp Thing