If I hear one more carpetbagger lament about the trials and tribulations of celebrating Christmas in a tropical paradise, I think I'm gonna hork up a fruitcake.
Newsflash: Christmas is well over a thousand years older than our entire republic. That means we've been celebrating it here in Florida for just as long as any other state in our union.
By my estimation, we've been doing a fine job. The number one complaint seems to be that we don't have snow. Are you kidding me? Snow sucks.
I hate cold weather and as such, rarely take a vacation north of the Georgia border, but one time I did hop a flight to Breckenridge for the holidays to see what all of the fuss was about.
The first thing I discovered was a peculiar and horrifying biological phenomenon that I mistook for a hernia. It seems that when subjected to extremely cold temperatures, male testicles will forcefully retract inward to keep the temperature of our swimmers at a viable state.
Mine were so far from their usual locale that I was sure I'd lost them for good. The fact that their first response to this frigid tundra was to turn tale and run should have been my cue to do the same. Imagine the irony – them thinking I was nuts.
I asked my mate if he'd experienced the same development, but before he could answer, I remembered that he was married and his wife kept his set safely stowed away in a jar back home.
That experience was followed by an afternoon on the slopes, which was less fun than my last root canal. I fell three times getting from the lift to the top of the slope, then tumbled down the side of a mountain, praying I wouldn't pull a Sonny Bono.
Bruised and battered, I soon called it a day and retired to the lodge to drink some tasty craft ales – one good thing that Colorado is straight up loaded with – and hopefully chase some snow bunnies.
The Winter Warlock Oatmeal Stout from the Bristol Brewing Company warmed my spirits, but all of the ladies were layered in heavy gear, with pasty, wind-burned faces, chapped lips and windswept hair.
Soon I was longing to be back home. I missed the Christmas keggers on Siesta Key, white lights on palm trees, the redundant airing of Feliz Navidad and all of those god-awful Jimmy Buffet Christmas songs.
So, where will Ringo be this Christmas? Kicked back on a chaise-lounge, toes in the sand, watching bikini-clad beach bunnies stroll on by.
I'll be wearing my Hawaian shirt, my Santa hat, my Ray-bans and I'll have an ice-cold Florida Cracker White Ale in my hand, while Mele Kalikimaka blares from my boom box.
What's Christmas like in Florida? It's like one of those Corona commercials that make you Yankees sick to your stomach when you're freezing your rump off on some couch in Ohio wondering when your junk will descend. Eat your heart out.
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