Boxing Day

What's the point in Boxing Day? Sure, writers groan about the relevance and annoyance created by the impending event of Christmas, and all the commercial drivel it spews upon us, but what about Christmas's less cherished younger sprog?

So I just performed some research. Wikipedia doesn't even have a definitive answer to what the "Boxing" in Boxing Day could possibly mean:

"The exact etymology of the term "boxing" is unclear and there are several competing theories, none of which is definitive."

There no longer being another encyclopedic resource I can type and refer to in less than 2 seconds, and therefore not bother with, I am completely at a loss. I can't stand boxing day. You just don't know where you stand with it. Is Christmas over? Is this still all part of the annual extended family meeting ritual? Fuck you Boxing Day.

Now all I can imagine in my attempt to bloat this post to something worth posting is being tortured to within an inch of my sanity by being made to watch the film Real Steel repeatedly on Boxing Day, in some kind of ironic demented technosexual fetishist dream that could've only been conjured by the sick mind of Hugh Jackman. You know the kind of people that like to strut around on camera with their hairy chest on display for 90 minutes, with sticky up hair and pieces of metal sticking out their hands? The recently injured, the mentally ill, and that's it.

You know, I haven't even seen Real Steel, but I assume it's terrible. Being a modern aspiring writer requires me to be overly critical and a little bit spiteful. X-Men Origins: Wolverine actually was really shit, though.

And that's what happens when you've been stuck in a spiralling case of writer's block since forever.