I know rationally that there is no real reason to be stressed out in December. I live in Los Angeles. I don’t have to deal with snow tires. I don’t have little children who want stuff. In fact, I’m not under any obligation to buy gifts for anyone or to do anything.
Still, this time of year always gets under my skin with the social obligations and people to see. Christmas is like a tick---a green and red tick. I recognize this, and usually can kill it with a pair of tweezers. Yes, tweezers are very reassuring this time of year.
This is also the time of year when I can’t turn to the movies for solace because all the movies are serious Oscar bait. Right now, I really don’t want to see Natalie Portman put her finger down her throat and vomit for her art. (Thank you New York Times for the heads up.) I don’t want to see angst even if it is well-acted.
So this year, instead of tweezing my way to better mental health, I turned to comedy. I didn’t have time to explore new hipsters. I went straight to the one guy I can count on to make me laugh. I went to the Ricky. The old school Ricky. Yep, I turned to David Brent.
As a service to the sunshine jeniverse, here is an oldie but a goodie:
