This is honestly why I don't like the modern takes on How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The point of the original story is that the whos are good people, who care about the spirit of sharing. They celebrate with fun toys but without the toys the holidays remain.
When the dude who literally stole everything from their houses rolls back in, they give him the head seat at the table. There is zero animosity on their part *because they keep the spirit of Christmas*.
Modern retellings are *a* story, but they completely lack the message of the original. They make the Whos into the Grinches. Now they're the ones who lack spirit.
The original message was be like the *kind and giving* people. The Grinch discovers kindness and it makes him stronger. It makes him better.
Seriously- I can't believe I have to say this, but "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" isn't about ostracism, or capitalism, or anything like that.
My Jordan-Petersonesque analysis: the Grinch is about a man who has isolated himself from all of society (except apparently one sycophant who literally can't argue and whom he horribly abuses) and went to live in a cave high in the mountains because he was so misanthropic.
There he blocks out all of society who could shame him by comparison to his badness, except once a year when he hears the sounds of joy at Christmas and he can't block it out.
It's important that when the Grinch says he's irritated by the noise, he is lying to himself. It's not the who's lack of consideration or excessive noise that is getting to him, or his hatred of materialism. He tells himself that it is a hatred of their materialism because he is envious of their happiness, which he tells himself comes from their belongings, so he tells himself that he is right to hate them. Thinking that happiness comes from belongings is an inherently materialistic impulse, so the Grinch is not anti-consumerist, if anything he is more consumerist than the Whos. And so he envies their stuff.
And he takes them for everything they have. And then when he realizes that their happiness didn't come from their stuff, but from being part of a loving community, he realizes that he's been the one responsible for his own unhappiness via his self isolation. That's why he gives all the who's stuff back, and they are fortunately good enough people to immediately welcome him into their community.
The click of the lock sounded like it sealed them in.
Pesci has already thrown off his overcoat– tossing it carelessly over his recliner as he heads straight for his room. Prosciutto is left standing there at the doorway– taking her time to slide off her blazer and shoes– The cool hard floor aiding her decision to keep her purple socks on. She makes it to his sofa before collapsing into a tired heap, melting into cushions. Letting the day finally drift away.
"I was just changing clothes, sorry." Pesci pipes from the hallway as he makes his way back to his living room– having changed into a black tank and gray joggers.
"I have clothes that you can relax in if you want.?"
"–its just that I don't imagine your dress clothes are that comfortable!" He very quickly tries to clarify. Prosciutto can tell its because he doesn't wanna cross any boundaries so soon.
"I've got shirts and joggers and–" he sputters on but prosciutto, for a moment, finds herself somewhere else.
She has never worn another man's clothes.
"Thats... very considerate of you..."
Pesci looks at her expectantly.
"Maybe later." She finishes with.
She cant help but notice his let down, hes gotten so good at hiding it now.
"Well how about a drink?"
Now that is something Prosciutto can land on.
"What do you have in there?"
"Beer... light beer... dark beer..."
"-wine.... I dont have any of that hard stuff you like, you know it hurts my stomach." He mulls, the last part he says more to himself.
"Is it red or white? The wine." Prosciutto asks because the answer does matter.
"Both? As in I have multiple?"
Prosciutto sits up a little, elbow resting on the sofa arm as she watches him rummage around in his cabinet.
“Red,” she decides. “If we’re opening anything, open the red.”
Pesci freezes mid-motion, his fingers hovering over the beer's tab he already had in hand.
Oh– right.
Of course she would pick the wine. She is a lady after all.
He places the can back softly and closes the fridge door as quietly as he can, like he’s afraid of disturbing the atmosphere. He stares at the fridge doors for a second longer anyway, the comfort of habit lingering behind those doors. But something in him shifts — a tiny, private thought:
Wine does seem more romantic… right?
He swallows, nodding to himself, and grabs the bottle of red instead.
Pesci returns from the kitchen with the bottle and a handful of two regular drinking glasses—no stemware.
Prosciutto raises an eyebrow.
“…Those are… just cups.”
He shrugs. “They’ll work, won’t they?”
She makes her way to him, reaching out for the bottle, already scanning the table. “Where’s your corkscrew?”
Pesci stops her with a quiet, “It’s fine. I got it.” setting the cups down.
Before she can question it, he grips the neck of the bottle with one hand and lets Beach Boy slide down his palm, hook bouncing on the string as he lets it fall. The little glint of metal sways once—weightless and precise—before dipping straight through the the thick glass of the bottle.
He snakes and maneuvers the hook into and through its narrow neck, the line moving with a fluid, practiced ease. It’s effortless, almost lazy, like he’s threading a needle underwater. The line disappears into the cork, tension tightening along the string as if Beach Boy itself is anticipating the snap.
Then, he begins to pull.
Not rough—hard but controlled—the string taut between his steady fingers. Prosciutto sees the cork begin to shift—just enough—nudged upward by something non-corporeal beneath the glass. The bottle trembles from the pressure, the cork slowly, stubbornly giving way.
Prosciutto’s breath catches.
Pesci braces the bottle against his hip– waving Beach Boy away with it, his two fingers and thumb wrapping around the cork.
The way his thick fist grips the neck… Prosciutto, for a moment, imagines him pleasuring himself…
The thought is too intrusive—too vivid—and it burns hot and low in her belly.
Jesus. Get a hold of yourself.
His jaw tightens; biceps flex, his chest tautens underneath his black tank, shoulders drawing in with slow deliberateness. Veins stand out along his forearm and up the side of his neck as he gives a hard pull.
pop.
The cork comes free. Its over in a moment.
He doesn’t even look at her. He just sets the cork aside, casual like it was nothing, and starts pouring—giving her a heavy, generous amount, then his own. The wine pools dark and lusciously into the plain cups.
Prosciutto takes the glass, stunned into silence.
She’s still staring at his hands. His arms, his chest and trapezius. The sheer size of him.
Pesci just grins— lifts his glass to his lips, and drinks it down like water.
Adrenaline high catching up to him and fast.
He wipes his bottom lip with his palm, totally unaware that the gesture sends heat rolling straight down her spine.
He’s proud. She can see it—he’s buzzing with that boyish swagger.
But underneath that pride is something else, something still sincere.
Did that look manly enough? Did I impress you?
Prosciutto swallows a mouthful of wine to hide the way her breath trembles.
Prosciutto knows she should scold him for being a glutton... A... sexy, show off, glut...
He doesn’t realize he just lit a fuse.
She leans back on the couch, trying to play it off, crossing her legs to stop the steady hum of want building in her stomach. Her voice comes out lower, rougher than intended.
"Where did that come from...” she smiles softly, coyly. Womanly.
He laughs once, short, nervous, rubbing the back of his neck. Already refilling his glass.
“Where did what come from?” smiling sweetly himself, making his way back to the couch to join her.
He doesn’t know.
He has no idea what he looks like to her.
Prosciutto’s eyes linger on him the whole time.
“I forget how strong you must be now.”
She pauses, correcting herself, softer-
“Beach Boy is one thing… but you must be so strong now.”
Pesci just listens, unable to meet her gaze for long. That perpetual urge to deflect her praise flickers across his face.
“It– uh, he does most of the work,” he mutters, cheeks warming from both the wine and her voice. He sets his glass on the wooden end table, seeming to contemplate whether or not to sit.
“Pesci. Sit with me.” She coaxes.
And he does. He sinks down beside her immediately because she asked him to. His size making it difficult to sit without touching one another in some way.
Prosciutto takes two long sips before she speaks again, already feeling the warmth settle in her face.
“I can tell." She's still eyeing his musculature. "You are bigger now. You were so much thinner at the start of our career.”
Our.
The word settles between them intimately and warm.
Pesci just listens for now, eyes a little unfocused. Lost somewhere between the buzz and the sound of her voice. Prosciutto is trying to catch up as she finishes her own glass. She grimaces at the last sips bitter taste– wiping her wet mouth with the palm of her hand– trying to talk through it.
“I remember your blonde hair too– Before the green.”
“Ah! Did-did you like it better?”
He laughs then groans– blushing even harder, while rubbing the back of his neck roughly. “I did that bleach job at home...”
She laughs with him- because of course he did. And he leans in, just slightly, without thinking about it. She mirrors him, like magnet to steel, feeling the heat roll off him. His chestnut roots so obvious now.
"I've had- I have fun with you Pesci." She admits.
"I have fun with you too, Prosciutto. Lots." Pesci says lowly. Sincerely.
And for a moment, Prosciutto’s looking straight past the man he is now- the broad chest, the shoulders, the strength- to the boy he used to be. And to the girl she feels herself becoming again in his eyes, in his arms.
Already hers before either of them had the words for it.
He may have always been hers.
"Pesci?..." as gently as she can. Her nimble fingers just barely grazing his body.
"Yeah...?" Quiet and hoarsely.
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Something in her expression makes him go still as his hand finds her thigh.
And he kisses her– slow and wetted from the wine.
Not as shakey as their first time, not nearly. Confidence so apparent in the way he moves now.
Like he finally knows what to do with a lover. With her.
His hand reach up to touch her jaw with the tips of his fingers, the other's fingers hooking into the top of her leg.
Its only seconds and Prosciutto's body is throbbing. Take me! Take me! It screams.
Then he pulls away. Gently, and Prosciutto has to stop herself from following.
"Prosciutto– I'm sorry– did you want me to do that?" Pesci stammers out before he even reopens his eyes. Hes interrupted by cool fingers on his lips.
vampires are so full of shit. "oh the human race is beneath us, you're just livestock to us" I don't think you know what livestock is. do you feed us? care for us? protect us from predators? no. you just slink around dark alleys and ambush people. that's not what a higher being does. that's a bottom feeder. a parasite. karate punches your head off
Well there is actually, they’re friends. They’re friends and they love each other and it doesn’t mean any less than if they were dating and they loved each other. They’re friends and that means devotion and affection and loyalty and love, and there is no point in which that love reaches a level that immediately indicates that their relationship must be romantic.
there is this controversy going on on TikTok where a girl made a video about how she is unemployed and disabled due to currently going through cancer treatment and how the loss of SNAP benefits was going to effect her. and the MAGA crowd found her and ripped her to shreds because she was a young “healthy-looking” girl with dyed hair. the most baffling part was all of the people saying things like “My dad had cancer and he worked EVERYDAY until he died! No excuses, you lazy bitch!” which is soooo wild. it is crazy how many members of the conservative ‘blue collar’ crowd love to brag about being fucked over and killed by capitalism. that is not a flex, quite the opposite, if anything that is insanely pathetic and sad. maybe your daddy would still be alive if we had socialized medicine and better sick leave policies but no, he worked himself to fucking death and you want a 20 something young woman to die the same pathetic fate. we need to start telling these people ‘that is so sad, I feel sorry for you’ instead of pretending this is in the scope of good work ethic. because it’s fucked up the things they’re going through and patting themselves on the back for. maybe if they felt less proud of being fucked over by the system, they’d work to change it.
You need to realize these people can’t be saved because they don’t want to be saved and want everybody else to suffer the way they/their family did. Best to let them suffer.
No? I think that attitude is how the left got its reputation as elitist and against the everyman in the US. If someone is told from birth their only value comes from the labor they can provide, they’ll believe it and they’ll externalize that belief. That person who is working themselves to death has a family, has children who will be excited to repeat their father and grandfather’s cycle of being exploited into an early grave. You have to keep trying. I’m saying this as someone from Appalachia. ‘Best to let them suffer.’ is antithetical to worker’s rights and human rights in general.
These people will be like “I’m about to be the 3rd generation in my family to die an early death after working in a coal mine my entire adult life.” and these heartless ghouls will be like “Well, you deserve it. You’re nothing.” which is exactly what their bosses tell them.
fascinating implications in the usage of this meme format, where typically the top text is an innocuous action or situation expected to have a neutral or positive effect, followed by the cruel and absurd reality revealed in the bottom text. is bad luck brian's true punishment in this torturous scenario his abundance of hope?
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