The Luv Doc: Expurgatory Catharsis

Officially this issue is supposed to be dated for December 26, which is known as Boxing Day in the UK and other British Commonwealth countries. If you felt a quick surge of adrenaline at the thought of pasty-skinned pugilists whaling on each other à la Brad Pitt’s bare-knuckle pikey fisticuffs match in Snatch, you would be sadly mistaken – not because Brad Pitt doesn’t hail from the Emerald Isle and isn’t an actual pikey – though I think everyone can agree his accent was flawless – but because Boxing Day isn’t about boxing. I know, I know, that’s a seriously egregious misdirect, but the Brits are an egregious people. Who else would make their servants work on Christmas? Yo dawg, they invented that shit – that and colonizing and enslaving countries a jillion times their size. “Sorry we diseased half your people and enslaved the rest, but in a charitable act of Christian goodwill we have decided you chaps can have the day after Christmas off – just don’t ruin it by trying to hacksaw out of those leg irons. Leftover Christmas gruel for everybody!”

Thanks, Chadwick, but us Yanks have thrown off the yoke of oppression … at least right up until November 5, 2024, when a plurality of red-hatted American deplorables decided to put it back on because of the “outlandish price of eggs.” #yolkofoppression (Sorry, that was a really bad dad yolk.) So, you might have picked up this Chronicle (aka this precious, pulpy protector of truth and democracy) on Boxing Day and you’re thinking, “What the fuck? Where’s my servant gift, Elon? You British Commonwealth motherfucker.” Well, here’s the deal: In America we don’t have servants. We have employees. Some of them work on Christmas … without health care … or vision care … or dental care … or a pension … so that millionaires can become billionaires and billionaires can become whatever the fuck Elon Musk is … and also so that blond lady on that Sewell Cadillac testimonial commercial can say she called her sales rep on Christmas Day when her Escalade broke down and he left his holiday celebration, drove to where she was and picked her up and took her home –  instead of murdering her and burying her in a shallow grave for calling him on Christmas Day. He really made her Christmas.You want to hear something really crazy? I’m betting there’s a chance you’re actually reading this precious, pulpy protector of truth and democracy on Festivus because, as luck would have it, the mucky-mucks at the Chronicle have decided to sneak this issue in before the materialistic rugby scrum of Christmas Eve day. That means you might well be reading this on the day Frank Costanza specifically designated for the airing of grievances. I have taken the time to air a few of mine, but the list is incredibly long and I am told this is supposed to be an advice column anyway. Besides, no one asked for advice this week because I guess they have the holidays all figured out. I am truly grateful for this holiday blessing, of course, but if, by chance, you would like to experience the expurgatory catharsis of Festivus, please, by all means, send me a list of your grievances – ideally through the Chronicle website and not through the U.S. Postal Service. They have enough problems as it is. How does that old saying go? “The first step in solving a bunch of problems is recognizing there are a bunch of problems?” Something like that. That’s the spirit of Festivus. Embrace it. Get it off your chest. A new year is coming and you don’t want to carry that negativity with you. Leave it with me. Let me be your Sewell sales rep.

This article appears in December 26 • 2025.