I've been feasting. Feasting instead of writing, in fact.

The evidence is in the pants. They're snug. My shirts and sweaters accentuate what could be described as a solid a-to-fledgling b cup. Chin #2 is getting its own congressional district. I even think my socks were tight the other day.

But such is the tradition of Christmas. Sure, the etymology of the name equates to "Christ's Mass", a celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. Yet, as the swaddled Jesus slept and the kings of the Orient were busy taking tokes off the myrhh pipe, I'm pretty sure there was nary a decorated pine tree, crackling yule log, or a fat guy with a beard (as Renaissance paintings have taught me that all Israelites were quite fit).

Indeed, much of what we know as "Christmas" today is tradition pulled from pagan celebrations, Germanic Yule, and the Roman Winter Solstice, among other wacky exercises in debauchery for the toga-set. One such was known as Saturnalia, or the feast of the titan god Saturn. The week-long fracas involved a role-reversal, with masters serving slaves, elaborate spreads, and- well- it wouldn't be a Roman celebration without orgies aplenty, the pinnacle of wine + nakedness. In fact, things got so out-of-hand that even bat-$@#% crazy emperor Caligula tried to shorten the festival to 5 days, without success.

So, with Christmas Eve upon us, I try to find a happy medium between the many bits and pieces of its origin. I wish that everyone out there- Christian or not- is filled with the joy of the season, spending time with family, friends, and loved ones. Let this be a time of hope, of reflection, and of anticipation towards the challenges and opportunities that a new year will bring...

...but we needn't forget to pepper in a little Saturnalia. Stuff your face. Have that extra slice of roast beef. Fill your pockets with mashed potatoes for the road. Drink wine. Have an extra glass. Open the good stuff: Burgundy, Barolo, Sauternes, Champagne, that cult Napa Cabernet. Sing. Dance. Strategically place yourself under the mistletoe (a note to the ladies: man-boobs are exempt in the presence of mistletoe). Find a friend, put him in a half-in-the-bag headlock, and tell him how much you love him.

But please: keep your clothes on, at least in public. Orgies are so passé.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and, of course, Sláinte!