Bah.
Last night I was making dinner for myself when it hit me -- yet another one of the millions of reasons I love sci-fi so very, very much:
There is no Christmas in space.
No year-in-review Christmas episodes, references, fucking songs, hats, bells, writhing battery operated singing icons, NONE OF IT. It's a beautiful thing, science fiction. I love it.
And before any of you make mention of the dreaded "Star Wars Holiday Special", be warned, so help me Gene Roddenberry, I will drive to your house and slap you should you decide to do so. It is merely the exception that proves the rule, and we shall not ever again speak its name lest we unnecessarily invoke the spirit of the infernal Jar Jar Binks... and we all know HE'S done ENOUGH damage already. (That's right, his spirit. I killed him. He is dead. Hallmark made a Christmas ornament out of him. It was more than I could bear.)
There is no Christmas in space.
No year-in-review Christmas episodes, references, fucking songs, hats, bells, writhing battery operated singing icons, NONE OF IT. It's a beautiful thing, science fiction. I love it.
And before any of you make mention of the dreaded "Star Wars Holiday Special", be warned, so help me Gene Roddenberry, I will drive to your house and slap you should you decide to do so. It is merely the exception that proves the rule, and we shall not ever again speak its name lest we unnecessarily invoke the spirit of the infernal Jar Jar Binks... and we all know HE'S done ENOUGH damage already. (That's right, his spirit. I killed him. He is dead. Hallmark made a Christmas ornament out of him. It was more than I could bear.)