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I must admit that since I discovered, just a little over thirty years old, that Santa Claus doesn't exist, this holiday has lost some of its charm.
I still remember that terrible mix of surprise and disappointment that overcame me at the tragic discovery, a pain more dreadful than a 0-6 loss in the derby or the premature elimination of Costantino Vitagliano from Big Brother VIP.
Now, after years of psychotherapy, I'm beginning to trust others again and perhaps with more sessions, I'll even forgive my parents.
I'm well aware that this revelation will leave many appalled, I'm sorry to have spoiled December 25th, but I would never have said anything if I wasn't convinced that you can handle it too.
Nonetheless, I enjoy this time of year idly loitering around the city, gaily flitting among the lights and sequins that begin to adorn it.
Adorn, oh dear … on the street where I live, they've put up some light decorations that look like psychedelic mustaches. Dunno.
Glittery, nonsensical escalation of insane euphoria, and I adore everything that is senseless.
Much less enjoyable and fun, however, will be celebrating in the mountain house with the in-laws.
When reaching a state of cryptobiosis and temporarily suspending cognitive faculties will be the adaptive-evolutionary tricks my body has devised to survive the terrifying three-day ordeal unscathed.
Thus, swaying along swept by the migratory currents, I unconsciously let myself be led by childhood memories, those of when my grandfather had a toy store.
That's why I often stop enchanted in front of the few remaining toy shop windows, and there I stop and observe, go back in time, and while the coils of nostalgia anesthetize me, I return to reality struck by something profoundly disturbing.
Too absurd to be true.
Superman's toy car ... something's not right.
Let's get to the point.
Why the hell would Superman need a car?
I could even understand that loser Batman, he's nothing more than a rich gym rat who can afford all sorts of tech gadgets.
Furthermore, it would be immensely useful for all the times he wants to sneak away with Robin.
But what the hell does Superman need it for?
He parks cars on his indestructible member to test his morning vigor. He lifts them like a jack, with an imperious superhero(t)ic erection, for perineal workouts.
To get around?
“hmm … Lois, I need to go get some bread. What should I do? Should I speed away to grab a fresh brezel from the best bakery in Salzburg or get stuck in traffic to go to Cecco, the baker's son? … okay, car.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxyhRdk-nj4
To flirt?
No way … it’d be like Gisele Bundchen trying to impress you with a talk on differential calculus, or like Brad Pitt taking you on a romantic trip to Agrate Brianza.
We all know perfectly well he doesn't need any trinkets to compensate for anything.
It's also true that invulnerability doesn't necessarily entail average-sized genitalia compared to those in Burkina Faso. Oh, could it be that on planet Krypton, pubic dimensions are expressed in angstroms?
Or perhaps he uses it when that annoying lower back pain prevents him from visiting the geriatrician.
After all, everyone knows … those damned cumulonimbus clouds he flies through are full of humidity, and the wool shirt he insists on not wearing under his suit protects against all afflictions, Kryptonite included.
His mother always said so too.
In short, it's as useful as giving a kaleidoscope to Andrea Bocelli.
Let's withdraw this senseless object from the market and be indulgent, as you've guessed, this is a pretext to wish you all happy holidays.
Whatever they mean to you.
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