December means Christmas, and Christmas means shame, for some reason.
Does it mean shame to you? Shame that you failed to become a big star? Shame that your blog still publishes the same stupid pictures of George W. Bush and doesn't get the hits that it used to? Shame that your business failed when someone asked for the rent money? Shame that your ass exploded?
Christmas means shame for a lot of people. Those same people usually just eat their shame and do nothing. They swallow their pride like a fist full of peanuts and wash it down with something that stings the back of their throat, and, brother, it ain't salt. A select few run out on their families and disappear into the ether. They run for warmer climes, and they run away from problems.
As a Gentleman Bounty Hunter, I am there to put these things right again. I don't always catch the people I'm after, but I catch enough of them to know that I'm doing the right thing by persuading them to reunite with their estranged loved ones and/or family, as the case may be. I'm often surprised by how many people don't know who I am. I hate to break it to you, but I invented the act of saying "don't you know who I am?" in airports because I got tired of being the anonymous little fellow traveling with Father to far-off destinations. In the 1950s, it was good for laughs. In the 1960s, it was good for a wry and knowing smile. By the 1970s, everyone was saying it.
Don't let Christmas ruin your ability to hide your shame. Go somewhere and have some fun. Beg off if family wants you to come home. Invent an injury of some kind. Burn down your home and explain that you have too much on your hands to submit to any kind of familial scrutiny this year. Lie, and obfuscate, and do whatever else you need to do. If you run off and try to go hide somewhere, that's just more work for me.