Traditions are nice, as a rule. For instance, in order to celebrate the Fourth of July, a holiday which commemorates a bloody war with England, we shoot off firecrackers, reminding us that muskets are loud and less than accurate. I’m not sure how pyrotechnics became involved but I am far more confused about The Easter Bunny and the role he plays in the resurrection of Christ. It must be one of those mysterious ways that God is always going on about, which He can because he’s God.
Imagine if you or I began yelping like a seal at Macy’s and when people asked us what we were doing, we replied, “Hey! I work in mysterious ways!” Nobody would nod in acceptance and feel like they were privy to a great truth. It’s not really fair, but it’s traditional for God to use that excuse.
Christmas traditions are slightly less bizarre than mutant bunnies, but still, dragging a tree into the house, propping the thing up while spewing a steady stream of expletives, hanging various paraphernalia on the thing, taking off all of the paraphernalia and then discarding the tree at the curb. What’s up with that?
Ever wonder what dogs think of this practice? Cats figure it’s for them because they think everything’s for them, but dogs? It has to give them pause about the whole humans are god thing, but so long as there’s kibble blessed be our name.
Halloween is weird, because Americans rarely open their door to strangers, but on this night, not only do they open their doors, but once opened, are faced with the kinds of things nightmares are made of; little girls with princess complexes and teenagers pretending their every day clothes are costumes, which adults believe year round.
You have to wonder, if the mothers of adolescents said, “You’re not going out until I can see 90% of your underwear, young man and make sure your shirt is so big that people think we can’t afford to purchase one in your size,” if they would then resort to tailored slacks and polo shirts.
Looking ridiculous between the ages of 13-18 (I’m being generous here) is also a tradition. It always surprises me when Boomers get their concealed underpants in a bunch because kids feel the need to celebrate their boxer shorts. Take a moment and picture the outfit you hit the streets in when you were 15. If you didn’t look stupid, you were a dork.
Plus, you have to feel bad for today’s kids. They seem to be running out of ideas of how to scare their parents into thinking they’ve done something terribly wrong. I mean, showing your underpants? That’s a little desperate and hilarious from my way of thinking, and when Boomers grind their teeth and post photos of droopy drawers on Facebook, the wearers of said drawers have succeeded in their mission and that’s when the world grinds to a halt. Or not.
Anyway, the only problem I have with traditions, unless those traditions are racism and eating live monkey brains, is that only old time folks get to make them up. I’ve been trying to gain acceptance of my own holiday and it’s been slow going. My holiday is called Blizzard For Lunch Day and I would think you would all be 100% behind this by now, but still you people are eating sandwiches and leftovers on Fridays rather than subscribe to my newly created tradition.
Perhaps some history will persuade. Dairy Queen Blizzards are delicious and although a large cup of ice cream mixed with copious amounts of additional calorie rich and fat laden items may seem like health food to the average individual in the USA, (Dairy, right? Plus some of them have fruit,) the treats have upwards of 700 calories, 25-ish grams of fat, and that’s for the medium. (They have small, but in for a penny, in for 10 pounds, that’s what I say.)
So, to save myself from waddling, I replace my large plate of Fettuccine Alfredo with the much healthier concoction of love, commonly known as The Blizzard, thereby creating a healthier choice and a deep-seated sigh of contentment.
Why are you people fighting me on this? It’s not like I’m asking you to drag a tree into your house or even procure the dairy segment of the product yourself. Simply, put down your fork on Fridays and grab a plastic spoon. It’s just that easy. And, before you know it, a tradition will have developed, leading back to me as it’s patron saint, thereby offering me immortality. Is that too much to ask?
Now, if you’re reading this post on the day I’ve unleashed it, you will slap yourself on the forehead and declare, “Holy crap! It’s Blizzard for Lunch Day!” (Not the use of capital letters. That means it’s an honest-to-goodness holiday.) “Man,” you will continue. “Time flies. Seems like just last Friday it was Blizzard for Lunch Day,” and you will be correct and ahead of the future minions, because, traditionally, Blizzard for Lunch Day always lands on each and every Friday.
Before you know it, you can judge your inner worth upon whether you practice Blizzard for Lunch Day and look upon those who choose to make another lifestyle choice with unbridled disdain and isn’t that what tradition is all about?
Great. Happy Blizzard for Lunch Day and a Merry Yelp Like a Seal at Macy’s.