As the choir softly croons Oh, Holy Night…
“Friends, white people, really white people: I bring you tidings of the season. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Dignified Kwanzaa, Unseasonably Warm Solstice, and Yo Saturnalia. Yo, Saturnalia. Yo, Saturnalia! Hey, could someone tap Saturnalia on the shoulder and wake her up? Thanks.
“Let’s remember the true reason for the season, huh? It’s not about stuff and buying things. It’s certainly not about buying cars for people as Christmas presents. Who does that? I’ve never met a human being who bought another human being a car as a gift, and I know some stupidly rich people.
“The sheer logistics of it: buying a car takes half-a-day at the very least. It’s a massive pain in the ass, even if you’re paying cash, which none of those fuckers on the commercial seem to be, because Mercedes isn’t really selling cars, they’re selling leases and finance packages, but that’s beside the point.
“So you’ve got, maybe, five or six hours out of a day you can’t account for and wives notice that shit. You know what else they tend to notice? Ten grand deposits disappearing from checking accounts.
“Plus: how do you get the car in the driveway? My wife can hear two squirrels fucking in the backyard, but you’re gonna sneak a G-Wagon up to the front door, then get out, then–then what? Where’s the car you drove to the dealership in? Did the dealer deliver the car silently and now the poor schmuck who had to bring your car has to hoof it back to a main road because the cell reception is shit out here in Pleasantville, where you clearly live if you’re buying luxury cars as stocking stuffers?
“I won’t even mention the giant ribbons.”