Why fun is bad and y’all are heretics
All articles published within this section of The Cor Chronicle are the opinions of the respective authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of The Cor Chronicle.
To quote a sagacious and amply mustached German from the latter half of the nineteenth century: “That was the most arrogant and mendacious moment of ‘world history,’ but nevertheless, it was only a minute.” He probably was referring to that absolutely deplorable practice currently in vogue on our campus: people decorating for Christmas when Advent has only just begun.
Indeed, we really ought to praise that prophet’s foresight, when only last week we looked upon a mall already saturated with the stains of consumerism, when we endured the sight of a tower prematurely be-glitzed with a shimmering wreath, when we studied on a Braniff first floor dominated by the over-wrought plasticity of a so called “Christmas” tree! What hubris so engulfed our campus that it dared bedeck its halls with yuletide trappings a full four weeks early?
It is impossible to honestly defend such festooning. Nor can we claim that this Christmas bling is in any way true to this university’s character. After all, do we really merit to call ourselves independent thinkers when our own decorative practices resemble so closely the pre-Christmas atrocities committed by the secular culture?
Moreover, can we claim the name of Catholic when we give in and listen to—and I can barely stomach saying it— Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” before the first bells of December 25 have gladly ring-a-ding-dinged the tidings of Christ’s birth? (If this is you; stop reading now. Make a beeline for that confession queue and atone forthwith for your sin).
O times! O customs! How did we arrive at this point, when, in a mere minute, the whole of campus is transformed into a giant lightbulb of depravity! Thankfully, as Nietzsche reminded us, it will only last a minute.
Yes, heathens, even this massive lightbulb of secular Christmas-ness shall be extinguished when the campus has been emptied of all your preemptive revelry. While you dream of sugar plums, this university, with no one here to celebrate Noel, will be as barren and joy-deprived as Scrooge’s pre-repentant heart.
But, you may ask, what is to be done? How might we reform a campus so horribly corrupted by the temptation of Big Christmas?
First, go sit in your room and watch “Charlie Brown’s Christmas.” Let the words of Linus sweep over you as you realize that our campus, once a small but natural tree, has become a pink aluminum arboreal imitation.
Then, go bake Christmas cookies. Just kidding! That was a test. If you agree to that proposition, you have revealed that you are still in need of purification.
No. Instead, set about the destruction of the idols. Heck, even Saint Nick knows that sometimes you need to be naughty before you can be nice (see the one hundred percent accurate story about his Mike Tyson moment against Arius). Begin with Braniff; tear down the tree! Better yet, fashion it into a battering ram in order to facilitate the rest of the destruction.
This is simply one of those moments when moderation is no longer required. Enjoy the chance to vent all your rage against final exams onto a bunch of innocent ornaments and lights. Once you have collected all the smashed decorations, save them. If Snowmaggedon hits again next semester, you will be in prime position to initiate a bonfire of the vanities on the mall, serving the dual purpose of heating the school and providing a morally edifying lesson to all onlookers.
Fair warning, though: this whole take-down mission might be a little hard to carry out. Apparently OSA has betrayed us—we happy few, we remnant of the true UD—and is willingly sponsoring some of the worst of the Christmas-related bread and circuses. Besides, if they actually catch you chain sawing through that Braniff monstrosity, they might just assume you’ve been sipping a little too much flaming rum punch.
So, on second thought, this operation might not be a go. Maybe we just need to sit back and offer it up, not complaining too much when someone passes us a cup of steaming hot cocoa, with marshmallows, a sizeable dollop of whipped cream and some peppermint bark. Maybe, just maybe, even I could accept that solution—unless you actually do like Mariah Carey, in which case, like Dickens’ famed hero, I still want to stab a stake of holly through your heart.