Rusty's Diary, Vol. 3: The Great Christmas Sellout.

Look, I’ve survived a lot in my life.

• Born behind a Waffle House dumpster in the middle of a lightning storm.

• Raised by an emotionally unavailable uncle raccoon who “didn’t believe in birthdays.”

• Forced to earn my keep by stealing arcade tokens from unsuspecting teenagers.

  
  

I thought I’d seen it all. But nothing—NOTHING—prepared me for this.

They’re turning my beloved Dive Bar into a “Christmas Pop-Up Experience.” Yes. Those exact words. Capitalized. Like they’re proud of it.

You know what I call it? Seasonal sellout.

Apparently, there’s going to be “whimsical décor” and “festive cocktails” and “a sense of magic.” I asked if we could instead do “questionably safe string lights, a drink called ‘Eggnog With Regrets,’ and a mechanical reindeer that yells at you.” Management said no. Management is soft.

They want me—ME—to “get in the spirit.” Do I look like a raccoon who jingles bells on command? I spent my formative years digging through half-frozen garbage bags for my supper. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, and it’s not a cute one.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I like a little holiday chaos.

• Uncle Rusty’s Christmas tradition? Lighting a fire in an empty oil drum and telling neighborhood kids that Santa was “arrested for tax evasion.”

• My first job during the holidays? Distracting mall security so my cousin could swipe Cinnabon frosting packets.

• My favorite Christmas memory? The year I found an unopened six-pack of root beer in a snowbank and drank it all before sunrise.

But tinsel? Garland? Cheer? No thank you.

I tried to pitch my own ideas for the pop-up:

1. Elf Dodgeball – You get pelted with dodgeballs by drunk elves until you cry or buy another drink.

2. Santa’s Naughty List Booth – You pay $5 to add your ex’s name to the list and I read it out loud in a public shaming ceremony.

3. Snowball Roulette – One snowball is actually a scoop of frozen mashed potatoes. It’s a gamble.

Rejected. All of it.

So, instead, I’m being forced to “pose for pictures” in a raccoon-sized Santa hat. Newsflash: I am a raccoon. I don’t need a hat to be adorable. Or menacing. You know what’s really festive? Biting into a candy cane just to assert dominance.

Anyway, I’m sure the pop-up will be “magical” and “delightful” and all those other words you humans slap on anything with twinkle lights. But if you catch me sitting under the tree, muttering into my whiskey and glaring at the inflatable snowman—it’s not the eggnog talking.

It’s just Rusty. Keeping the “bah” in “bah humbug.”

🎄🦝 —R.B.