Apparently today is National Fruitcake Day, which is most likely a sister day to National Cat Pee Day and National Stab-Yourself-in-the-Eye-With-a-Rusty-Nail Day—things that are about as equally enjoyable as fruitcake.

According to the website for this holiest of days (yes, there really is one), “Across the United States, fruitcake lovers young and old, observe National Fruitcake Day each year on December 27.” Uhh, what? Was this originally written when some great famine had overtaken the U.S. and people had to choose between eating locusts, dirt and fruitcake? Because I haven’t met anyone in my entire life who actually enjoys eating one of those nasty-ass, soggy bundt cakes of sh*t. And “fruitcake lovers young and old” must be code for “victims of child and elder abuse.”

Fruitcakes are disgusting. They’re one of the major downsides to Christmas, and will instantly turn a festive holiday home into a demon horde’s bloodletting cavern. That’s why the only reason anyone has a fruitcake in their home is because someone hideously evil gave it to them—which was how my parents ended up with one last year after a “friend” gave them one as a Christmas “gift”. My parents didn’t look terribly enthused at the idea of eating this giant, Christmas version of a middle finger that was loaded with those nasty candied fruits, and oozing some sort of noxious liquid whenever you just slightly pressed on it to make sure it really wasn’t the steaming turd pile it totally looked like.

No way was I going to let my parents eat it, so I instead paid back the debt I owed them for their gift of life by stealing that damn fruitcake and feeding it to the birds in my yard, effectively committing animal cruelty eradicating its existence from the face of the planet. That’s right, I saved humanity by making it possible for us to live with one less fruitcake in the world. Give me a medal!