I’m a REAL Ugly Sweater, And You’re Just A Mass-Produced Piece of Holiday Brouhaha

You’re really sleighin’ it there, young whippersnapper. A real Casanova, spreading holiday cheer and Christmas spirit and UP YOURS, you mass-produced piece of landfill.

If I had a penny for every one of you kids I’ve met, I could retire to Florida. In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw your twin lingering by the finger foods table over there. You’re no ugly sweater. You’re just funny-looking. I’m clearly the uglier, greener, more superior option.

Plus, I heard what you said about me not being festive. This coming from a holiday-crazed punk. I’ll have you know I’ve been possessed by the spirit of that Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas song since it died back in 1963, and even it’s sick and tired of your Dancer and Prancer malarkey.

What is that on your face anyway? Caroling kittens in jingle bell hats? How cliche. My pattern reeks of ornamental class, quite literally. The giant, alternating pink and lime circles (far from your red and green ensemble) resemble holiday bulbs from a simpler, more two-dimensional time. Before the planet was on fire and five year olds were forced to make schmucks like you.

And if you’re asking, yes, I was soaked in bleach after a bad fondue incident. The whole ordeal sent me on a dryer trip that caused me to shrivel up into half the sweater I used to be, only to be pulled from the back closet of a Goodwill and stretched out again by a rather large man. 

Just look at you. You’re a phony, acrylic-coated, plastic bottle. I’m a real-deal vintage holiday classic. My material has a voluptuous, lush feel that’s been pilling up with fluffy lint balls for so long I’ve been mistaken as an actual Christmas tree. Even a Remington razor can’t fix my ugliness. 

You were made with fast fashion in mind. Or should I say fast trashin’. Speaking of, I saw this great segment on 60 Minutes about you the other day. Did you know a garbage truck full of your brothers and sisters is dumped into a junkyard every second? What’s gonna happen next year, when your human doesn’t want to be seen with you anymore?

Admit it. You’re a one-hit wonder. Meanwhile, I was handmade with longevity in mind by a sweet old Minnesota grandmother named Josephine, who waterboarded me in a bucket and beat with a broom daily.

Back in my day, I was fashion on a regular Tuesday. I’ve been sprayed with a fire hose, attacked by police dogs, I even protested Vietnam. And if I’m not on my meds, I can talk to trees. I’ve also been fishing on a Saturday. Have you? Of course not. Your storied history involves being shipped express from a warehouse with a bunch of wasteful cardboard.

The dark stories woven deep into my past have made me the cloth I am today—a Grinch-looking holiday spirit animal that isn’t afraid to show you my shingles if you keep yackin’ on and on about how ugly you are.

Face it. You’re basic. And I’m ugly. Ugly is in my blood, or the questionable blood stain on my sleeve. I’m so awful, I’m not even a sweater. I’m a jacket. I put the “i” in coziness. You put the “i” in strip mall.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go rest my eyes for a minute on the davenport. All this gum flappin’ has me spent.

Amy is an advertising and comedy writer, who loves to poke cleverly at the very industry that pays her, the pop culture that entertains her, and the Bible Belt that raised her.

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