It is something I avoid every year at about this time. Keep in mind that I said “about.” Every year, it seems to get harder — not impossible — but harder. It’s a very tricky operation, but one I like to think I have mastered pretty well. Also keep in mind that I said “pretty well,” not great — not this year anyway.

Try as I might, I have already failed to avoid this hideous doom, this holiday season. While home over the weekend, running errands with my mom, I made the mistake of turning on the radio, and the horror unfolded like a fat kid realizing the McDonald’s at Disneyland is now selling fruit rather than fries.

The crackling of the radio station’s old copy of the insufferable Christmas carol began, and my ears tried as hard as they could to alert my brain, but it was too late. Before I could lunge myself toward the seek button, I heard the obnoxious singers breathe in and sing “Come they told me, pa rump,” and everything went silent — I had made it to the off button, but not soon enough.

One beat is one beat too many.

What kind of a sick world are we living in that this monstrosity is considered cheerful, peaceful and spirited? I would like to personally thank Katherine Davis, Henry Onorati and Harry Simeore, the authors of this earsore, for giving me the gift of fear. The fear that I will be forced to listen to this nightmare every year is truly the gift that keeps on giving.

I blame myself. My guard was down. I should have known better, but I was living in a naive world that was not expecting a Christmas carol for another couple weeks.

What was I thinking? I saw Santa Claus at the mall in Winston-Salem three weeks before Thanksgiving, and there were children in line. Those are some greedy little buggers if you ask me. I saw the Christmas decorations at Target the day before Halloween. It’s weird to see frost on the automatic sliding doors when it’s 75 degrees outside. I saw Salvation Army volunteers at the grocery store ringing their bells for donations. They looked kind of confused; maybe because they were wearing short sleeves.

It’s all so clear to me now, and I can’t believe I let myself become a victim of the little drummer boy’s dim-witted persistence. I hate it. It’s the one holiday festivity that I hate more than when the tone-deaf children’s choir sings “Morning Star” at the Moravian love feast on Christmas Eve. That may sound mean, but trust me, it’s dreadful, and I’ve got witnesses to back me up on that.

I don’t understand why I must deal with this every year. It’s not a pleasant song. It’s redundant, ugly and it makes me envy van Gogh. Maybe he knew it was coming, so he decided he’d cut off an ear just in case he was still around. He died 68 years before it was written, so cutting off his ear was a tad extreme. On the bright side, he never had to listen to it.

Now, let’s go back to that “about” comment I told you to keep in mind. A public display of Christmas decorations is like a light bulb burning out; you never know when it’s coming, but when it does, you can’t help but jump back and say “damn it!”

The timing is always different, usually earlier. It’s ridiculous that Thanksgiving is essentially skipped over just so greedy store owners can encourage sales earlier and earlier each year. Thanksgiving is a time for being thankful, and I wish I could add “I am thankful I wasn’t exposed to that insipid “Little Drummer Boy” carol this year” to my list.

Maybe one day, I keep telling myself, maybe one day.

Vent your Holiday frustrations to Meghan at [email protected].