A couple of years ago I walked into Target Canada and saw the horrendous capitalist abortion, The Elf on the Shelf: A Christmas Tradition. Yeah, a tradition of lead paint, smoking while pregnant and hating Russians. Holy crap, what decade is this thing from? Honestly, has opening up a box of Kraft Dinner become so labour intensive that we don’t have time to create our own Christmas traditions? Especially ones not based a creepy doll watching your children and being a jerk around the house. Ones that look as though they crawled out of the rose colored past. Between the aesthetics and the prefab tradition, how could people not hate this thing. If you need swaying, read on. If you don’t, Merry Christmas you like minded bastard. Read on!
First, the aesthetics. They harken back to a time before designers, polio vaccines and plastic. Which, ironically, that is what the elf’s perfect head is made from. The Elf on the Shelf’s expression is frozen in a “who me?” pose. You can almost hear the officer on the other side of the glass asking number three in the police line up to step forward. The same number held by the elf himself! However, in some cases it could be herself as the elf resources department is equal opportunity, as long as the elves are white or ethnically ambiguous brown. Next, the pointy little feet – as pointy as the seemingly hate group inspired hat upon its arian head – legs pour into feet due to a lack of ankles. Ankles that had to be broken in order to escape the shackles of justice of the Mexican prison the elf was held in. Which was not the last time the elf replaced its stuffing with cocaine and tried to cross the border. Just the only time it got caught.
Second, the tradition. This is some other family’s tradition. Neatly boxed up with a book. The lousy movie is sold separately. I am sure, within the last four hundred years, there were other families who did similar things. But these go-getters were all, “I’m tired of being upper middle class on Christmas.” And have since started a new tradition of being rich! There are plenty of traditions and many of them don’t cost forty bucks. The ones that do should get you drunk! Call me a cheap ass, but couldn’t you just make your own tradition, sans creepy doll? Your pediophobia laden child will thank you! How about a nice advent calendar, some hay for the reindeer or spaghetti sandwiches for Toy Boy, AKA Kakeman.
Seriously, standing under the mistletoe, screaming the lyrics to “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer,” while sloshing what little is left of your eleventh Jack, with all of your friends and family standing around you doing the hokey-pokey is a Christmas tradition. It is weird and possibly creepier than the damn elf, but it is one you made on your own! You did it! And when you look up to that shelf – as the oxygen deprived tears well up in your eyes, as you belt out the third rendition, as you find yourself profoundly moved by your friends shaking it all about – and you spy that mother-stuffing elf on your shelf. The one you bought to be ironic because you are such a hipster. Grab it! Make it quick and clean. Hold it firmly so it doesn’t run. Have a friend open the door. And lastly, look it straight in the eyes say “I voted for Dukakis!” Then punt it out on the freshly fallen snow. Boom! Elf punting! New tradition! Merry Christmas!