One A Them Crispmoose Letturs -- 2008

Yeah, I know: I don't do Christmas letters, yet again.

Well, two years ago, I decided I would. And since it went over like a fart in a divers' suit (especially when I got one niece's age wrong), that justifies me doin' it agin, when I got my niece's age right. So being 1-1, I reckon it's a best 2 out of 3 now.

So, with no further adieu, lemme start with the parent and siblings:

Ma is living in xxxxx, CO, and still lives in that house right next to her church. A house very reminiscent of those of rural Iowa, where she growd up. She does her church thang and brags to her peers about how us kids are, and that she's proud to take no responsibility for most of it, especially me and my wonky phone messages, like the one of the Three Stooges singing "hello", that she thought I sang (I couldn't carry a tune if I had a bucket to put it in). To get me back for that, she tells everyone all my embarrassing baby and lil' kid stories of the dumb things I've done and said, realizing that I'm still saying and doing dumb things today, because I like to build on my dumb-things-said resume, which might prove handy while the stock market tanks. She also likes to garden and has growd enough rhubarb this year to blockade the Panama Canal, and I plan to eat half of it in pie form, which won't entirely please the Chinese, but who cares about them, anyway, unless they're the ones that run the delivery restaurant I call weekly? At any rate, it's still like old home week for her.

My older sister is living in xxxxxx, CO, and still lives in the same new house she's lived in for three or so years now, with her two MASH-oriented cats, Hawker and Trapeye (I think I made those names up; I can't remember). With the number of surgeries each has had to date, one is now bionic and the other may be on the next NASA shuttle mission as a navigational device. She can see Kansas, or something that looks little different, from at least one winder, while the bionic cat can see all the way to Virginia, and can't understand why he can't jump through the wall and land on that seagull at Cape Hatteras, but he'll grow out of that eventually, or actually be able to leap that far, what with the advances in hydraulic limbs and stuff. She's changed jobs and still works as a rocket-scientist type, rebuilding her computers as often as her cats, so it's still old home week for her.

My other sister and and her hubby are living in xxxxx, CO, and still have the same house thingee they lived in for a few years now. Their horses (Briscoe, Mara, Lena, and two year's ago bun in the oven, now Rennie, none of which I made up) and dogs (Santa Fe and Merlin, neither of which I had to make up) are living in the same barn they've lived in for a spell now. Actually, Santa Fe and Merlin aren't living in the barn with the horses, since Merlin's soccer playing is too infectious on Rennie, who is running around the corral, nosing an empty bucket and barking, just like Merlin. Sis had to spring for horse whisperer therapy to get Rennie to resume horsespeak, and now Merlin is restricted to yard soccer. They also inherited Bessie, a cow that is in lust with Sis's hubby, and no longer has a bun in the oven, but a calf that quite likely is enamored of Sis's hubby as well, which he says he says he isn't responsible for, while telling stories about Reese Witherknife, and catching everyone but Lil' Bro widdit. Otherwise, it's still like old home week to them.

My younger brother, his spouse and their daughter are living in xxxxxx, CO, and still live in the same house they lived in for a few years now. Their horses are actually cats and dogs (Merlin, the cat-abused beagle, and two new cats the names of whom I can't remember so I'll call 'em Duck and Dire), are living in the same garage they've lived in since being introduced into the household now. Lil' Bro got promoted and can't talk about it (all that secrecy stuff he's involved in), his wife is doing what she does (she can talk about it, but I can't remember what it is), and their daughter is continuing to out-genius the rest of us, and taunt her dad with Oakland Raiders regalia, as well as texting teen, girly ringtones to his phone while he's at work or walking through an airport, which he explains away to coworkers by telling them she's a Raiders fan, something she'll outgrow, while she refuses to outgrow it with an evil grin on her face. Otherwise, it's still like old home week to them.

As for other nieces and nephews, they are scattered from Montana, to Arvada, to Florida, doing those various and sundry thangs that they, for the most part, were doing two years ago and last year, more or less, and are now doing this year as well. It's still like old home week to them, wheresoever they are.

As for me, I am living in xxxxxxxx, CO, and still live in (what's left of) the same apartment thingee I have lived in for a few years now. My pet rock, Seymour, finally returned from his 3 years in Japan and Ohio, though without his purloined (from an Iowa cornfield in '05) friend Jane -- an authentic ear of corn -- apparently having gotten divorced while at the Moooo! Bar on Shiraishi Island; only the bar owner knows just what went down there, and she ain't saying (I still have photos, and might eventually put 'em on Facebook, if Seymour will quit threatening me with my golf putter). I won't let Seymour have access to the DVD remote, so he can't convert it like he did my TV remote into a home defense device (after watching an The Outer Limits marathon on Sci-Fi, back in '03); I'm finally done paying for the vaporized refrigerator. I don't think property management here has figured out what happened to the 'missing' apartment next door as yet (long as they don't read this h'yar blog, I reckon I'm okay on that 'un).

Otherwise, I'm still working at the same job, though I've been promoted once and moved twice, but still wound up crushing crime, protecting and serving (or so I fancy it), babysitting my staff (I don't need to get married and have kids..got 'em) and giving my boss additional reasons to wish he could retire. Now. He refers to me as 'a pita'. I'm not sure I don't know what he means, but I can't remember, deliberately.

I also continue to build my personal wealth portfolio from all those Nigerian (and other) email scammers I have been responding to since 2000. My last fiscal audit of account has me at an on-paper value of $998 million dollars (it was over a billion plus, before the stock market tanked), which is my accumulated promised take (by them) on helping them to give me the business. How much of that has actually been tangibly realized is somewhat nebulous amongst my various accountants, but it tends to average snake spit (especially after the stock market tanked). I'll keep working on it, having nothing better to do, so the folks that tell me I have nothing better to do can remain correct in saying that. I like to be accommodating that way. A character flaw I'll get over at my funeral.

This year's scamming characters read almost like the 12 Days of Christmas x 4, in that I've had 48 Russian bride wannabe scammers, 44 faux ATM card offers, 40 childless widows, 36 death threats, 30 job offers, 28 Mariam Abachas, 24 Nigerian Senators, 20...gold...Mastercards, 16 bogus money orders, 12 French financiers, 8 faux FBI mails, and a pair of Craigslist scammers in a pear tree (hopefully shoved up their bungholes). All of whom don' wike me vewy well. The fact that I continue to lowlight them on my blog -- especially when I aid them in looking, er, sub-intelligent -- doesn't help my image with them. But they'll grow out of it (see what I just did there?).

And I'm still ordering chinese delivery, since my 9th set of smoke detectors remain set to speed dial 911 if I get within 10 feet of the kitchen (aka, I don't cook worth a turkey hork, as the infamous punkin pie con carnage and turkey of a recipe episodes revealed). I'm not even sure what a turkey hork is, but when I find out, I'll be happy to let one and all know.

The scammers still won't wike me vewy well.

In short, it's still like "what's left of" old home week hyar.

So, Merry Christmas to y'all, and if you see smoke on the western horizon (I think most of you readers are east of me), worry not: it's just me in the kitchen, ignoring the screaming smoke detectors and not answering the frantic pounding on the door. Can't find it through the smoke, anyway...