I had an idea for a piece about rubber bullets, but the topic seemed problematic after I thought about it for a while, and who needs more problems?

Not me. I’m just going to Spotify the crap out of some tunes and pretend the 21st century hasn’t turned into a gigantic creepshow.

I’d like to thank the four people who read and commented on last week’s installment of Sworn to Fun: The John Hicks Story. Soon to be a major eBook or whatever they’re called.

Okay, fine, it’s not fair to bring up rubber bullets and leave you hanging. Here’s what I was thinking: If someone shoots rubber bullets at you, you should be able to shoot rubber bullets back at them. And since rubber bullets do injure people, let’s make it paintballs. But everybody on both sides gets a paintball gun and the same amount of ammo.

Join the Fair Play for America Committee. Demand a level playing field. Nobody likes a blowout. Write your Congressperson today.

Have you ever noticed that it’s always “gunman” and never “gunperson” when some idiot goes on a rampage?

Maybe that’s because the idiot is almost always a man. Gun-wielding female berserkers are a tiny minority. Let’s see, there’s Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, Valerie Solanas, and, uh …

Dang. That’s about it!

Keep up the good work, ladies, and remember, folks – if you must shoot, shoot paintballs.

Okay, I tried. It’s not easy being funny right now. The New Dread is upon us all, and here comes (earsplitting, discordant symphonic blast) Christmas.

Happy holidays.

Christmas 2011 is shaping up to be the weirdest ever. It’s a good time to move into a cave. In Chile. Tell your Chilean realtor you want a place with a rope ladder. Ocean view preferred.

I’m all for people celebrating the birth of Jesus. I have no problem with the concept. I’m all for people celebrating whatever they feel compelled to celebrate.

If you want reindeer on the roof of your house, then by all means put reindeer on the roof of your house. Slap some LEDs on those bad boys. Have a ball.

If, for some incomprehensible reason, you want to listen to Christmas music all month long, okay, great.

I will be somewhere else. Like a cave in Chile.

There are plenty of cool things about Christmas – if you’re five years old. I have some great Christmas memories. I didn’t always get exactly what I wanted, but I never felt disappointed.

In that ancient era (Vietnam, Lost in Space, Bonanza, Nixon), Christmas still had class. Christmas was the gold standard of good times, and no suburban kid was immune from the excitement.

One of my earliest acting triumphs? Marley’s ghost! Fourth grade, Northside Elementary. Real chains. Those suckers were heavy. I was like a nine-year-old De Niro: “More chains! I can take it!”

Christmas could not have been bigger.

Then it got bigger.

And bigger.

And … Well, here we are. Peace on Earth, pepper spray in your face, Ace. Ho ho ho.

Most of the time, I do not feel comfortable speaking for Jesus. I’m not a minister or a preacher. I do not care to discuss my religious beliefs in an opinion piece for an online magazine, albeit a fine one.

I do not disparage the religious beliefs of others, no matter how zany I happen to find them, and I would never condone the circumscription of any religious practice unless it involved, say, drinking goat blood out of mason jars. That’s just nasty.

But I’m sure Jesus is not pleased with what we’ve done to Christmas. I’m absolutely sure.

There aren’t too many things of which I’m absolutely sure. There are only about three.

Jesus is not pleased by this annual orgy of materialism and bad taste.

Vegetables are good for you.

Bob Johnson is in need of a bath.

“The idea that the universe has multiple histories may sound like science fiction, but it is now accepted as science fact.” That’s according to noted brainiac Stephen Hawking (The Universe in a Nutshell, 2001).

Multiple Christmas seasons. Multiple Bob Johnsons.

My understanding of quantum mechanics is severely limited, but I’m pretty sure I hate Christmas in all 11 dimensions.


John Hicks is bound by the uncertainty principle, more or less.

About the Author

John Hicks

Havin' a wild weekend.

John Hicks lives outside the city limits, where eagles dare.

View All Articles