Yule Logic

By Bill Frost

You know what time of year it is—but what do your favorite classic Christmas TV shows say about you? Read and learn as we take a wholly uninformed stab at psychoanalyzing your beloved holiday specials:

If you love A Charlie Brown Christmas, the 1965 Peanuts tale of a manic-depressive kid with an unusually large noggin and rapidly receding hairline who laments the rampant materialism of Christmas, you’re a threat to our American Way of Life and probably have already been flagged by Homeland Security. It’s also likely you live on a compound surrounded by weak twig-trees bent over by single decorative balls, and co-host an anti-government short-wave radio show with your dog who thinks he’s a fighter pilot.

If you love A Christmas Carol, any one of the hundreds upon hundreds of increasingly worse remakes of the Dickens classic over the years, you are either Kelsey Grammer or Jennifer Love Hewitt, stars of a recent NBC musical version. You prefer living in the past and have trouble facing reality, but should admit that the next and only career step is becoming a Ghost Whisperer or posing for Playboy (or, at this point, Perfect 10).

If you love A Christmas Story, the 1983 movie about an unbalanced 9-year-old’s obsessive quest to score a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas, you’re probably an unregistered firearms owner and listen to that short-wave radio show hosted by the squiggle-shirted skinhead and his bloodthirsty beagle.

If you love Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas, the 1977 Muppet special about destitute forest critters who assemble a bluegrass band to win Christmas cash in a talent show, you’re likely troubled by your own perceived musical shortcomings. Fans of Emmet Otter tend to be music critics, radio DJs and members of heavy-metal tribute bands inspired by the winners of said talent show, the Riverbottom Nightmare Band.

If you love Frosty the Snowman, the 1969 animated half-hour about a talking snowman desperately trying to get to the North Pole before the spring thaw arrives, you’re probably struggling with drug addiction and should seek help at the nearest substance-abuse center. The parallels to Gus Van Sant’s 1989 road movie Drugstore Cowboy are uncanny.

If you love How the Grinch Stole Christmas, the 1966 Chuck Jones adaptation of the Dr. Seuss story wherein a holiday-loathing Santa Claus imposter steals all the Christmas gifts of an unsuspecting village, you are most likely a proud Red State resident. Just trade-out Whoville for Blueville and crank the Toby Keith.

If you love Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the 1964 Rankin-Bass stop-motion animation classic about a reindeer with a glowing red nose who caves to discrimination, but ultimately rallies other “misfits” and saves Christmas when the fog rolls in, you may have a deep-seated mistrust of “normal” people, but an unusual affinity for French-Canadian miners and amateur dentists.

If you love Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town, the 1970 Rankin-Bass story of how Kris Kringle came to be Santa Claus while trying to get out from under the thumb of the Burgermeister Meisterburger in Sombertown, you have problems with authority, and believe The Man is holding you down. When Santa figured out that he could turn everyone against the Burgermeister by giving them toys, materialism triumphed over communism, leaving you more confused than ever.

If you love The Year Without a Santa Claus, the 1974 Rankin-Bass (yes, them again) cautionary tale of Santa calling it quits because he felt unappreciated, you’re probably conflicted about your current life’s path—as represented in the Snow Miser and the Heat Miser, the need for security and the desire for pleasure. Or you just like the tunes.

If you love South Park’s “Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo,” the 1997 Parker-Stone (the Rankin-Bass of our time) classic that introduced the singing piece of crap who cheerfully instills the Christmas spirit, you’re just sick, twisted, corny and nutty. We are so going to hang out at the next Christmas party.

Reach Bill Frost at frost@slweekly.com or myspace.com/TrueTV