You've had a nice little run - 82 years, to be precise. But i think it's time you took a good, long look in the mirror and asked yourself a few hard questions.
Why am I still doing this?
What drives me to grasp so desperately at affection, adulation, and acceptance from a shivering throng of frostbitten, angry New Yorkers?
What's in it for me?
Can you honestly say you know the answer to any of those questions, Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade? Can you? I certainly can't.
This morning, 3.5 million people flooded the streets of Manhattan for a chance to see a giant, inflatable smurf drift past them while children and/or vagrants blew snot at one another. Does that sound festive to you? How many people in attendance even knew what a smurf was?! A SMURF, Macy's?! Are you kidding me? You've got to give these families something to work with if they're going to brave the elements to join the huddled mass of humanity in transmitting airborne diseases to one another while your overblown Shrek careens around Times Square. These poor kids wouldn't know a smurf if it showed up on their doorstep with a shopping cart full of video games and hard-core pornography, which, if my information (read: assumption) is correct, is what the kids are into these days. Try and keep your finger somewhere near the pulse, Macy's. I shouldn't have to spell it out for you.
And hey, I don't know if you've noticed, but we're smack-dab in the middle of a nationally crippling financial shitstorm here. Just out of curiosity, what's the overhead on your little operation? I can't imagine hundreds of alcoholic clowns, ten marching bands, and every member of Cirque de Soleil and the Blue Man Group come cheap. And 28 floats? Really? You couldn't trim the fat just a bit? We needed Papa Smurf and Buzz Lightyear?
Miley Cyrus made an appearance; that's good. The kids seem to enjoy her and any opportunity to trot out old footage of her father's award-winning mullet and painted-on denim one-piece is a bonus in my book.
Of course, Santa Clause made his way down the parade route. This is also good, or so it would seem, until one realizes jolly old St. Nick was sitting atop the most hideously terrifying monster anyone has ever laid eyes upon. Behold:
Don't turn around, Santa! It's right behind you! Just stay still! Its cloudy eyes see nothing, but it can sense motion and fear!
Look at that fucking thing! What IS that, Macy's?! The demonic survivor of the world's first and only attempted turkey abortion? That motherfucker will haunt my dreams and visions for years to come, Macy's. Years! I can't imagine the psychological trauma endured by the countless children who bore witness to the central figure in their holiday season (sorry, Jesus, you'll continue to take the back seat until you get flying reindeer and a big ol' bag o' gifts; them's the breaks) perched mere feet away from the salivating, bloodthirsty maw of what looks for all the world to be one of the Skeksis from The Dark Crystal. (See below)
Are you trying to delight these children or sentence them to a lifetime of fitful, sleepless nights, the result of which will most certainly be an epidemic of sedative addiction and sexual deviance? You disgust me, Macy's. Just a few quick suggestions for next year: ten floats, three marching bands, AND NO FUCKING SKEKSIS!
You're a time-honored holiday tradition, Macy's, but guess what? So is my uncle, who shows up an hour late for dinner every Thanksgiving with a box of wine and a plate of half-eaten nachos. Within an hour, the drunkle has worn out his welcome and everyone's silently hoping he'll just pass out and choke to death on his own gravyvomit. That could be you, Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Time is running out and our patience is wearing thin. Get your shit together.
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