INSULT TO INJURY: THE 12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS: DON'T START SINGING YET

Let's get something straight from the start: Popular opinion to the contrary, the 12 days of Christmas have nothing whatsoever to do with any segment of time before Christmas Day. Period.

Despite what you will be told this week and next by angst-ridden advertisers out to sell one more yuletide doodad before the pre-Christmas liquidation sales kick in, and despite what you hear said by a bevy of inane radio deejays who think they are oh so clever because they can count beyond 10 without taking their shoes off, the 12-day period does not begin today and end on Dec. 25.

Actually, "the 12 Days of Christmas" is a liturgical designation used in Christendom to mark a season on the church calendar, much like the 40 days of Lent. Christmas Day is the first day of Christmas, not the 12th. The 12th day is Jan. 5, the day before Epiphany. Don't believe me? Fine. Count it up for yourself.

So why the confusion?

I've come to the conclusion that this whole notion that the 12 days precede Christmas originated as a bit of deliberate propaganda perpetrated on foolish, unsuspecting parents by their conniving little children eager to open their presents early.

"C'mon, Mom and Dad," they whine. "After all, the 'true love' gave gifts up to 12 days before Christmas. So what'll it hurt our opening presents a day or two early? Eh?"

Beware, parents. Beware.

But even worse than this obvious misuse of the phrase itself -- far worse in my book -- is the song to which the phrase has given birth: "The 12 Days of Christmas."

Call me a Grinch, compare me to Scrooge, but honestly, is this song really necessary?

Each year by the time Christmas finally arrives, I am so sick of the song that I swear if I hear it again I'm going to take hostages, starting with department store Santas and Salvation Army bell ringers.

Bah, I say. And humbug.

The problem I have with the song is twofold.

First of all, the song itself is annoyingly monotonous and does little to enhance the festivity of the season. Listen to it, if you dare. It just drones on and on and on and on.

And on and on and on.

It feels as if it will never end, like a bad blind date or a Kevin Costner movie. For sheer musical redundancy it is surpassed only by that old school bus favorite, "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall."

By the time it reaches day six in the lyrics, I've heard enough to move gladly on to the next carol. By day eight my left eye starts to twitch and spasm. Day 11 is not pretty.

But beyond the questionable musicality of the song itself are those awful, awful lyrics. I mean, talk about your conspicuous consumption. It's enough to embarrass even the most staunch bourgeois supporter of laissez-faire economics.

Yes, yes, yes, I'm still frisky enough to appreciate the titillation provided by the sight of nine ladies dancing or even eight maids a' milking. But does anyone really need 10 lords a' leaping? Hmmm? And who are these lords anyway, and what exactly is it that they are leaping over?

Furthermore, if you examine the lyrics closely, you'll see the true love is not just giving away geese a' laying, golden rings and a partridge in a pear tree this holiday season. The true love is also giving people away as Christmas presents. People. By my count 50 folks have been gift wrapped by song's end. As if they were stocking stuffers. As if they were fruitcake.

Honestly, is this the song we really want to associate with a season that proclaims peace on earth and good will toward all? Do we really want to encourage our children and our children's children to sing a song that so blatantly and unabashedly speaks of trading in human flesh?

What's next? The hanging of the Soylent Green?

I am, therefore, calling for a nationwide moratorium on the song and am urging all to cease and desist from singing it until at least Christmas Day and preferably beyond -- way beyond, say like June or July and not before. And may the good Lord protect any carolers this Christmas season who happen to waltz by and dare to sing the song anywhere near an open window of mine.

I will scream epithets so crass and obscene that I will likely frighten the children and cause the womenfolk to blush. I will hurl toward the crowd helter skelter any large, heavy object with sharp corners within my immediate grasp. I will pelt them vigorously and repeatedly with sugar plums and candy canes. And I will not be held responsible.

So when you get some misguided, misty-eyed yuletide yearning to let loose with a few bars of the tune, don't. Just don't.

~Jeffrey Jackson is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.