Well, it’s that time of year again. That wonderful season where those of us who just want to get through it without felony charges plaster a fake smile on our face and avoid human contact unless absolutely necessary.

I returned from a Scout campout on Sunday to find that the infection of holiday herpes, AKA Christmas decorations, had begun its inexorable infestation of my home. The old dining room has an artificial arboreal zombie, complete with seizure-inducing twinkling lights.

The liquor cabinet had been cleared off and the Holy Family, complete with resin Baby Jesus, has been planted in a bed of fake garland. Apparently, Our Lord and Savior has to be born inches from my stash of corn liquor.

So now, when I go to get a bottle of demon rum out of the cabinet in order to quell the voices in my head, I have to look our Lord and Savior in the eye as I decide if this is a nice, mellow Jim Beam evening or a howl-at-the-moon cask strength Wild Turkey kind of night. So, I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

Just remember kids, if you mix top shelf hooch with Coca Cola, you will make the Baby Jesus cry.

The draping of my abode in Christmas dreck will only get worse as we approach the 25th. It will be a gradual ramp up over the next couple of weeks, followed by a frenzy of midwinter decoration starting two days before Christmas.

The discussion of when I will find time to drive around Louisville to find a bourbon-soaked fruitcake made by Trappist monks (not a joke) has already started. Last year, it took two evenings, a tank of gas, and stops at 8, count them, 8 purveyors of holiday horror to find one and bring it home.

I will admit, it was tasty when served with a cup of hot coffee laced with a little Kentucky blessing.

At least my shopping is almost done. I may have overstepped when I told my wife that if she didn’t tell me exactly what she wanted and send me links to make the purchase, she was getting steak knives. She acquiesced when she noticed I wasn’t laughing along with her.

The boy is getting a couple of small things from me and a gift card. This is how things will go until the final Christmas before his 18th birthday. He will then get one of the biggest gifts I’ve ever given him – luggage.

Girlie Bear already got her present – cash. She was quite pleased with it, as expected.

So, for my fellow prisoners of Christmas conscience, keep your chin up. Good luck, and I’ll see you on the other side when we will be spending the first week of January helping our friends and family who are really too old to drink like that.