Jingled opens with Matt Daughtry, a frazzled Chicago-based lawyer, chain-vaping in a rental car outside his parents’ house in North Carolina, mentally prepping for another round of yuletide trauma. He’s been doing this for five years, five round-trip flights, five “never again” promises, five servings of emotional stuffing he never asked for. But this year, he’s brought backup: Grant, his very put-together, very hot psychiatrist boyfriend who is probably way too stable for this level of family nonsense.
Matt’s parents are exactly the kind of people who say “war on Christmas” unironically and conceal-carry handguns for a quick pop into Publix. His mom's default setting is weaponized concern. His dad probably quotes Tucker Carlson like scripture. The gay thing? Not discussed. Ever. Matt describes his family dynamic like a Broadway play that should’ve closed five seasons ago, and honestly? That tells you everything you need to know.
Then things start to get... weird. Not just tense dinner-table-vibes weird. I mean “why is there a full adult choir singing Silver Bells on our lawn at 11 p.m.?” weird. Flights get canceled. Gas stations run dry. Hospitals and fire stations are suddenly short-staffed. And seventy-eight million Americans wake up and decide, collectively, that they’re just... not going back to work. Because “it’s Christmas. And Christmas is for family.”
The official term is Christmas Syndrome, but the internet starts calling them Jingleheads, which sounds cute until you realize it’s a nationwide mass delusion that's maybe being fueled by a shady little app called MerryNet. Think: targeted holiday brainwashing via AI algorithms, propaganda wrapped in “peace on Earth” branding, and evangelical capitalism served with a candy cane. It’s both absurd and deeply plausible. The most chilling part? These people aren't rioting. They're just so happy. Singing. Decorating. Buying. Baking. Smiling like Stepford zombies while the country crumbles under tinsel and ever-mounting credit card debt.
Matt doesn’t want to get involved. He’s spent his entire adult life emotionally dodging his parents like it’s a sport. But when the Syndrome starts creeping closer and closer... when the map of infected regions starts looking suspiciously like an electoral map... when his own legal work starts tying back to the companies behind it all... he realizes the line between “not my problem” and “I helped build this” is a lot thinner than he thought.
What really makes this book work isn’t just the eerie, slow-burn dystopia. It’s the characters. Matt and Grant have that rare thing, a queer relationship that feels lived-in and real, not overly performative or thrown in for flavor. Elise, Matt’s sister, is the glue in the chaos. She drinks, she jabs, she plays emotional referee, and she’s the one who can call Matt on his self-isolation without turning it into a lecture. The three of them together? Found-family gold. It’s like if the Scooby gang solved capitalist mind control with sarcasm and seasonal depression.
The writing is razor-sharp and sneakily emotional. One second you’re laughing at Matt misplacing his vape (it’s in his lap), the next you’re getting punched in the soul with a line like “Maybe they just can’t stand living in the same world with us anymore.” There’s humor, but there’s grief in it. There’s fear. There’s that sick realization that the people you love might choose fantasy over facing what they don’t understand. And there’s no easy Hallmark ending to fix it.
This isn’t just satire. It’s a horror story about disinformation, emotional detachment, and what happens when nostalgia becomes a weapon. It's painfully smart, bitingly funny, and terrifyingly relevant. The pacing gets a little loopy in the middle. But honestly? So does the country. It tracks.
Solid 4 stars. I will absolutely read whatever holiday entry Evan J. Corbin writes next, probably while hiding under a weighted blanket and muttering about fruitcake.
Merry Mayhem Prize: For turning “Christmas is for family!” into an actual threat
Huge thanks to Atonement Books and NetGalley for the ARC. And for fueling my new fear of holiday apps.