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                The holiday season having finally passed, leaving behind the depressingly anticlimactic Y2k no-show, I have come to a conclusion about the entire season. I ate too much, and I didn’t sleep enough. My well balanced diet consisted of all the Major Food-like-product groups, including Cheez Whiz and Egg Nog. Combined with my ordinary sleeping patterns of rarely if ever, I now feel delightfully refreshed, in the sense that I may pass out at any time. If I do, I’m going to throw up on the way down.
                At this point I’ve hit the aptly named Holiday Hangover. Scrooge sounds like a pleasant old man. The Grinch seems the sort of guy you could get to like. Cindy Lou Who gives you severe intestinal cramps and may god help you if anybody asks for any figgy pudding. You feel an urge to find a crowd of young impressionable children so you can spill the beans about Santa Claus. Yes you do.
                So you now your digestive system is trying to process a week’s worth of food that has the approximate nutritious value of a Twinkie made of asbestos. You might be feeling like you haven’t slept in a week, but that’s only because you haven’t slept in a week. Or maybe your winter break isn’t like mine.
                Me, I feel like grabbing a pair of black sunglasses and huddling in a darkened room yelling at anyone who moves to stop making those loud noises. I don’t actually have a splitting headache mind you, I just like snapping at people.
                You probably spent all night waiting up for midnight, excitement building to a fever pitch until finally the ball drops and you cheer and reflect on the new year, only to find out it’s a lot like the last year, except you’re more tired. Oh, and you owe your sister three bucks from that Y2k bet.
                As you slip out of your holiday funk you notice that Y2k was over-hyped, the world hasn’t ended, and you haven’t done any of your homework, including that six hundred page reading assignment worth 45% of your grade. You won’t be sleeping tonight. That’s ok. You recently made the discovery that sleep is not necessary to maintain contact with the Incan Monkey Gods.
                You glance at your gifts and realize that there were a whole lot more just a second ago. Somebody must have taken a bunch of them while you weren’t looking! Worse yet, they took the good ones and left the socks you got from Aunt Grizelda. A whole bunch of your gifts could be described as "interesting", meaning interesting in the sense of bean salad, which is interesting because it provides a valid pretext to use the word flatulence in a sentence.
                Your gifts sure do suck, but I got you beat hands down. You see, my great-uncle sent me money. Now I know what you’re thinking, "Money? I like money!" So do I, normally. But my uncle is a priest from Chicago, and he’s taken a vow of poverty. That’s right. Me, spoiled rich suburbanite that I am, got money from a man who has taken a vow of poverty. It’s straight to hell with me. I can see it now.
                I’ll be standing in front of the pearly gates, with St Peter glaring down at me. Next thing I know I’ll wake up with a little cartoonish devil looking impressed and saying that they’ve got a special place for my kind and asking me to follow with the group of murderers, rapists, terrorists, lawyers, telemarketers and the French.
                Try topping that with Aunt Grizelda’s socks.