Monday, December 29, 2008

A Guide to (Almost) No Surprises in '08

*This was originally posted on 1-3-08; let's take a look and see just how I dun h'yar, shall we?*

Wanna know what the future of '08 holds? A few think they know. Most would like to. A lot will make guesses about it. A few will be right. Most will be anywhere from right, to a little bit right, to wrong, to waaaaaaaaaaaaaay wrong. Some of them will enter the federal Psychic Witness Protection Program by the end of the year, ducking the many who want to sue over inaccurate predictions that cost $125/hour.
Speaking for this blog, don't waste your money on 1-900-PSYCHIC, cheap tabloids, newspaper astrology, Letterman's Top Ten of '08 List, or NostraCurlus (pictured, right). Just let ol' Skunk hyar do the foreseenin'.

Granted, I'm about as prescient as a popcorn fart; then again, even I have enough worldly experience to know in advance that a popcorn fart will clear an elevator. And with some of what passes for expertise in the official pundit world, it makes me "qualified" to pass along what follows. What's more, these predictions for the year ahead come with a guarantee*. How much better can it get than that?

So let's get right to it:

'08 will NOT be the year of the "Inevitable Hillary": despite all of Hil's, Bill's and the allied media efforts to inflate and keep afloat the bad ship Inevitable Hillary and her voyage toward Leftist-styled socialism, her negatives and Bill's inability to remember which lie he told to whom, when and where, will lead to a Republican returning to the White House in '08. She may not even get the nomination, all her spin and "inevitability" aside.
(I was half-right: Hillary isn't the President-elect; then again, neither is a Republican...1 out of 2).

Speaking of the White House: voters might barely return a Republican to the White House, avoiding a 90s revival of the Oral Office and Lincoln Bedroom orgies, but..."President Huckabee"? Don' think so. It'll more likely be an ex-mayor, ex-senator, or ex-governor, not that we're naming names.
(I was right that it ain't President Huckabee...but wrong on the party. 1 out of 2).

'08 will be the year of allegations of election fraud: especially when the Clintons lose. Moron.arg and ACORN will lead the charge, demanding that illegal aliens, cartoon characters, convicted felons, transients, college radicals under multiple aliases and dead people, were denied the right to vote for Hillary. The charge will be true. The demand for legal redress based on the charge will be crap, as heretofore and always.
(Since the Dems didn't lose, they weren't screaming fraud...this time. Missed that 'un).

'08 will be the year of the 'alternative energy source' breakthrough: as stability in the Middle East continues to move in the same direction as the positive opinion ratings of the US Congress, some obscure research facility in a secretive location will develop and perfect the first methane collector/converter for use in a wide variety of formats, effectively ending the need to import $100/barrel-plus oil from persons of dubious antecedence and weirder notions of camels. It will provide for methane-powered autos, aircraft, boats, ships, space craft, as well as residential and industrial power for perpetuity, or as long as Man and Bovine inhabit the Earth and/or Congress stays in session. Granted, getting bovines to take the passenger seat in your Miata or next to you on a 787 Dream (or Nightmare) Liner might prove a bit cumbersome, but there's always trade-offs. And to offset the olfactory downside, there'll be Glade Plug-ins.
(okay, so stability in the Middle East achieved marginally more success than Congressional ratings; the jury's still out on this particular alternative energy source, especially with Dems in win or loss here).

'08 will be the year that AlGore predicts Earth has surpassed the tipping point in the great Global Warming Scam: AlGore and his hysteria-for-profit crowd will decree that "it's too late", and that within 5-10 years, Mother Earth and every mother's son and daughter are doomed, unless drastic action is taken now. Meantime, he and his minions will secretly switch most of their investments into the company that makes Glade Plug-ins.
(I think I'm in on this one.)

'08 will be the year that war will continue, somewhere: yep. Too much ammo laying around to just let go to waste, and too many good terrorist targets out there to pass up on. Happy shooting! (Yawp...excluding Afghanistan and Iraq, there's all sorts of shooting all over Africa, and some in Asia...this one was like shooting fish in a bucket).

'08 will be the year that Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Britany Spears, and other like-minded celebrities will make news: if the celebs themselves don't, the media will guaran-dang-tee that they do. Unless, of course, that the three aforementioned clean up their acts. Then they'll still make the news, as the media will openly speculate on how long before they fall off their respective wagons. And if they somehow don't, the media will report they did, anyway. Not that it matters, since none of the three can stay on a wagon, unless strapped to it.
(Win, place and show...I'm onna roll).

'08 will be the year that some legendary personalities will die: the Dolly cloning experiments proved that, as yet, you can't dig up and rejuvenate The Three Stooges. But '08 -- like a couple-three previous years -- will prove better for animated personalities; just ask the animated David Seville and his foils, Alvin and the Chipmunks.
(Bingo...another fish in a bucket one).

'08 will be the year that the US dollar stabilizes: at about the value of a quarter.
(Hmmm....not far from it...I'll score that one as good).

'08 will be the year that illegal immigration peaks and recedes: especially when the peso is worth more than the dollar.
(Ditto...dang, I'm good).

'08 will be the year of break-through, life-enhancing discoveries: for instance, the above alternative power source; abdominal exercisers that really work; a fool-proof answer for men to use when asked that dangerous question by their ladies, "is my butt getting fat?", and what may well be the life-enhancement for the history of Man/Womankind, the invention of a nuclear bomb that leaves intact buildings, plant and animal life, and normal human beings; it incinerates only lawyers. That one will probably earn a legitimate Nobel Peace Prize and will prove the greatest single invention of the past 10,000 years, replacing the wheel, fire and Chinese food takeout/delivery previously so designated.
(Well, there were some breakthroughs...just not the ones I listed...debit).

'08 will be the year that research studies continue to reveal to us the obvious: for example, a five year study of 1001 adults who consumed canned corn for at least one meal a week will die eventually, according to researchers at the Harvard School of Absolutely Ridiculous Studies For Federal Funding. They'll insist that more study (aka, taxpayer money) is needed to determine cause and effect. They'll most likely get it.
(This was another 'fish in a bucket' study...winner).

'08 will be the year that suicide bombers will be required to wear and clearly display warning labels: so will say the FDA; the ACLU will fight this, to be sure. They'll most likely seek to have it misadjudicated in the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, at least until that aforementioned Nobel Peace Prize nuclear device is brought into play.
(I think I win this one: suicide bombers still aren't wearing warning labels, and the ACLU would have fought it tooth and nail, anyway...score another for me).

'08 will be the year that congressional 'ear marks' will be renamed: to something to try to conceal them again. It won't work. The practice will continue, regardless (until or unless the previous entry).
(I win this one hands down, especially with the Dems in charge..).

'08 will be the year that the Weekly World News predicts Hell freezing over, pigs flying, Big Foot learning the Macarena, carnivorous happy-footed penguins, and proving yet again that an alien U-boat -- disguised as an ice berg -- actually sank the RMS Titanic: oh, and yes, they'll predict the coming "end times" again. And again. And again. And the Alien that meets US Presidents and predicts presidential outcomes, will predict that Ron Paul and Dennis Kucinich will not get their party nominations for President. Pretty intuitive feller.
(Another one for me...hooha).

'08 sports predictions: no one will break the MLB home run season or career marks, while waiting for the next generation of performance-enhancing steroids to be developed and concealed. Mike Tyson will try to come out of retirement after seeing Rocky XXI (he won't finish the first round against Candy, the steroided Wonder Gerbil). The Stanley Cup will be won by some team. There won't be any 8' players yet in the NBA (see the first prediction for why). The New York Jets will be predicted by some idiot to win the Super Bowl next season (they won't). Woody Paige will remain a pompous, loud-mouthed pinhead. Will Ferrell won't win the NASCAR Winston/Busch Cup title(s). The NCAA football national champion next season will almost be won by William & Mary, when new BCS standards are "fixed" yet again. Girls Gone Wild will be rejected as an Olympic sport in Beijing, causing widespread civil disobedience and bringing down the government, to Keith Olberman's petty annoyance.
(Doing good on all those but the William & Mary pick and bringing down the Chinese government...they might screw me up and get into the BSCS yet...if ACORN runs the voting).

'08 climate predictions: the icecaps won't melt, the ocean won't boil, the lakes and rivers won't run dry, and the planet won't sizzle like an egg on a frying pan. Of course, it'll snow and disrupt the snarf out of some parts of the country, early and late in the year. It will be unseasonably warm and dry in other parts. There will be floods, droughts, heat, wind, thunderstorms, downdrafts, wind sheer, microbursts, mesocyclonic supercell thunderstorms, sleet, ice storms, dust storms, and some damned fine weather here and there, throughout the year. When it comes to hurricanes, '08 will be the year that not one hurricane will be named Bitch, Ho or Prick, even where deserved.
(Dang, I'm good...)

'08 movie predictions: movies will be made. Some will suck. Some won't. Anything with Will Smith, Harrison Ford or Hilary Swank in it, probably won't suck. Anything with Ben Affleck or Rosie O'Donnell, probably will.
(Dang, I'm good again..)

'08 TV predictions: some will be made, once the writer strike fades like a popcorn fart on the wind. Some will suck. Some won't. Most of the 'reality' TV shows will suck, regardless of who's writing for them.
(Subjective, but I think I score here, too..)

'08 astronomical predictions: Man won't yet walk on Mars, but AlGore will blame us for global warming there, anyway. Uranus won't attack Earth. An asteroid won't destroy the south side of Chicago, IL, much as it needs a face-lift.
(Yes, yes and yes...)

'08 religious predictions: radical Islamofascists will continue to suck. Jesus Christ will not have a reunion tour with the Twelve Disciples across America in a '47 Houston, despite some Mormon claims otherwise. South Park will remain thoroughly irreverent. Tom Cruise will continue to stew at South Park and Germany over their dissing of Scien-talltale-ogy, and it will affect his lackluster acting. Pastor Gas DVDs will still be found on the Internet, somewhere. The rest of us will do what we do. Amen.
(Shore 'nuff on all counts..)

So there you have it, folks: your guide to what to expect in '08, guaranteed*.

I did so good there, perhaps I might just do it again in '09...if I can find the predictive 8-ball I used last January...

* Disclaimer: you are guaranteed that if any/all of these predictions don't come to pass in '08, they will in some year that ends in some number...we just didn't specify in which CENTURY or parallel DIMENSION. And since it didn't cost you anything but time to visit this blog, we will be happy to offer you a time-back guarantee, soon as our alcoholic scientists at Bonco, UnInc., finish trouble-shooting and perfecting that Time Accelerator/Decelerator/Reclamation Device of theirs (coming in a future entry...or a past entry, soon as they figure out where it went on a test flight...).

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

A Skunky Merry Stinky Christmas

(all the scammers I've baited this year probably gathered together to get me this....LOL)

Actually, Mike Ashley (aka, Hale McKay) sent me this hyar, so hyar 'tis for this Christmas Season! May it be a great one for one and all!

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

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 '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,, 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...

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Saturday, December 20, 2008

Christmas Returns (from 2007)

UPDATE: see below original column!

As should come as no surprise to readers of this blog, my substandard and probable last entry for 2007 would find a way to tie together unwanted Christmas gifts, Ebenezer Scrooge and an email scammer, all into one nice neat bundle. Of course, if I were to actually wrap such, the last thing it would resemble would be a nice neat bundle (just ask the family), but I digress.

Yes, I received an unwanted Christmas gift. I'm sure that at times, most of us have over the years. You get something from someone that, quite frankly, thrills you to receive about as much as a porcupine enema. And I don't know anyone who's thrilled with one of those.

Some people find a place to hide or dispose of such unwanted gifts; others take them to a store where the item may have been purchased, and seek an exchange or refund. Still others use the time-honored practice of "regifting" it to someone else, usually with the best of intentions (not).

In my case, I took the wholly Christian attitude that giving is better than receiving, especially in this case. And giving back is better still, than allowing the original giver to give me the business she/he intended.

You see, on Christmas Eve night, I received an email. An email from Mrs. Sandra Watson (, entitled Endeavour To Use It For The Childern Of God. She, you see, was into the spirit of giving. Of giving me the business. And using the same stupid, plagiarized format, practically word for word, that I have been seeing since 2001. For instance:

I am married to Dr. Christopher Watson who worked in Kuwait embassy in Ivory Coast for nine years before he died in the year 2005 (only the year has changed). We were married for eleven years without a child (seed this afore *TOING*) He died after a brief illness that lasted only four days. Before his death were both born again Christians (seed this afore *TOING*). Since his death I decide not to remarry or get a child outside of my matrimonial home with the Bible is against (it has other issues with what she's doing here, but I note she easily overlooks that, and she goes on). When my late husband was alive he deposited the sum of 18Million USD with the BANK in Europe (seed this afore *TOING*).

And in keeping with the same stupid, plagiarized format, practically word for word, she goes on with Recently my doctor told me that I would not last for the next three months due to cancer problem (seed this afore *TOING*). Having known my condition I decided to donate the Fund to church or better still a Christian individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct here in. The bible made us to understand that blessed is the hand that giveth (I kinda rather suspect that He didn't mean "giveth the business...").

And from then on, it's the usual hokum about how I am her chosen "Christian individual" who will see to the needs of widows, orphans, Islamofascists, drunken orgies with 72 virgins, etc., by allocating this money as her last wishes dictate. With, of course, me keeping a percentage for my "good Christian selflessness" (aka, my being duped hyar).

Bottom line: I have seen this scam, almost word for word, I would estimate at least 50 times in the past few years. I have played it out for weeks a number of those times. But this is the first time I've received it as a Christmas gift, on the very eve of same.

Well, my spirit of giving is alive and well. So much so, that I feel personally unworthy of this gift. So unworthy, that I am moved to give this gift back, in a manure that befits a baaaaaaaaaad Skunk during the season of giving. Witness the following reply to our faux dying screwatrix:

My dear pre-corpse,
First of all, a Merry Christmas to you, too. I really don't mean that, I assure you.

Now, to the more important stuff. You were married for eleven years without child? Damn, girl. Your cherry got flies buzzing around it now? Next time, try marrying something other than an inflatable sex toy, and you might learn something about basic human biology sooner. I mean, c'mawn...neither the birds nor the bees operate in an inflatable mode. The parrot that sat on Inspector Clouseau's shoulder, well you saw what happened to it when all it did was leak, squeak and get pumped up. Don't you learn nuthin' from nature or movies?

As for the faux mortal disease that faux afflicts you, oh horsefeathers...if you'd had the sense Gawd gave a tree stump, you'd of used an alcohol wipe on the inflation tube you mistook for Mr. Happy, and you wouldn't a caught what you dun caught from your lip service to Who's Yo' Inflata-Daddy. While he was inflating like Otto from the movie Airplane!, you were picking up every gnarly practice he ever dun or thunk up to do via that thang.

Hell, Dr. Ruth had a book -- Sex For Dummies -- you ignorant wench! You can probably pick it up cheap on!

Still, it is Christmas, and you did say with genuine disingenuousness that you are a made-up born-again Christian of dubious antecedence and chicanerous tendencies, so I guess I should lower myself accordingly to meet you somewhere in the muddle.

See what I just did there? Oh, silly me...of course you don't. A tree stump wouldn't, either.

So let me ask you this: are you a moron by birth or choice? It's not a rhetorical question, though it could be if it's looped. Take your time answering, as I'm sure your handlers need to look up 95% of the words here.

All kidding and jest continued, I am returning this letter to you. Yes, I opened it; yes, I read it. So it's not brand-new anymore; it's used. It's devalued. It's depreciated. And it is sooooooooooooo passe. I first received this exact same letter back in 2001. That person was a wildebeest molester in drag; that's the example you want to pattern yourself after? Granted, I haven't seen your mirror image, and you might be perfectly at home there. The flies certainly would be (see what I just did there again?).

Perhaps your ability to be original is wanting; so you can't help but plagiarize your fellow scammers, having all the creative talent of a door knob. Oh, I'm sorry: you don't know what a door knob is. Don't you just hate when I do that?

Ho-ho-ho (bet you don't see what I just did there!)!

At any rate, Madam Sandra Watson, here is your effort to give me the business, returned to you. I am not worthy of your generosity. Truly, I am not. I would suggest you to be far more worthy than me. With such being the case -- no, don't be modest, you really ARE worthy of this and what follows -- print it out, place it in a self-addressed envelope, mail it to yourself, and upon receiving it, insert it width-wise up your chicanerous bunghole. It might cut down on the flies, albeit briefly.

And next time, send me something for Christmas I can actually use, you sorry shortness of breath!
Ebenezer Scrooge

Strangely enough, I got no reply from Mrs. Sandra Watson. But I did hear from the Ghost of Christmas Past, about my pathetic imitation of ol' Ebenezer. I found him to be as easily gotten rid of, by giving him the gift of telling him some of my really bad jokes, like "did you hear about the skeleton that clattered into a local bar, and ordered a beer and a mop...?".

*ducking boos and throwd bony-handled beer steins*

UPDATE: unexpectedly, I got a response from Mrs. Sandra Watson. As you will note, she don' like me vewy much:

Yo are stupd stupd man No writ me no again go hell.

Some people simply don't appeciate the practice of regifting...

Friday, December 12, 2008

"Deer Santuh"?

'Tis the season again.
In the news, two town councils in Colorado have acted to, in essence, ban Christmas decorations on state-owned properties, opting for generic "holiday" themes, so as not to offend anyone. One of the towns wound up rethinking the move..for now. The other -- Golden, CO -- went with the ban. A private homeowner can decorate as they like (for now), but the City is "holiday-neutral".
So are a few elementary schools, scattered about metro Denver, under the "No Non-believers Left Behind" policy, or some such.
Some kids' parents' elected officials.
Anyway, someone sent me an email containing a letter, purported written by a six year old, to "Santuh". I don't know if the letter is real or made-up, but it cracked me up, and I'm going to share it here. For those of you who are politically correct, you can raise your hackles in comments. For those who aren't...enjoy:
Deer Santuh,
My teechur sez I am knot suphosed too rite too yu and ax fore anything fore Kristmus. She sez to all ov us that we kant sez anything abowt Kristmus or yu, bekauz knot everywun selebrats it, and it iznt fare too them what dont selebrate it, fore the rest ov us too bring it up. She sez for us knot to be shellfish this yeer ("shellfish"? Mwhahahahaha).
Insted, hour teechur sez that we is suphosed too rite too hour new presadent, Barrack Obamuh, and ax him fore something gud fore all of us. This iz the list ov things we git too ax fore:
- no moor oil bekauz its not gud fore the outside
- no moor coal, bekauz fore the same reesin
- werld peece
- fore himsef too rase tax on rich peeple, bekauz they haf all the muny and its knot fare too pour peeple
- fore us too be nice too the peeple in the Middal Eest, bekauz they wood stawp killing us if we wood just be nice too them
- make moor unyuns, bekauz we kant trust bidness and unyuns need moor muny too spend too make more elekted peeple that like unyuns
- pass a lawh that makes consurvatives illeegul, bekauz they are meen-spiruted
- make skool moor fuhn bye getting rid ov tests
- opin the bordurs bekauz white peeple owe everywun else repairashuns
- teech Izlamb so the mad peeple in the Middal Eest will stawp being mad at us
- make biggur guvermint so we kan haf hellth kare in the yuniverse
So I rit like my teecher sez too hour new presadent and ax him fore werld peece, I think.
But I did whant too rite too yu, Santuh, bekauz I stil beleev in yu, and will haf the cookees wating fore yu in the sam plase.
And I hop yu wont mind if I ax yu fore something, even if it iz shellfish like my teechur sez. Santuh, kan yu bring me a new teechur? Mine iz kinda stoopud I think.
Thanx, Santuh!
I'd say throw in a spell check with the non-stupid teacher, and the kid's got himself a good Christmas wish!
At any rate, real or not, this letter deserves an answer. An answer from Santa. And while I ain't Santa, I reckon that with all the letters Santa and his little ankle-biter elves are inundated under just now, I can get away with answering at least this one on his behalf. So:
My dear lad/lass,
I was very moved by your Christmas wish letter, after having it deciphered, and I am going to, of course, grant this wish with expedience. You will receive your new teacher -- complete with dedication to basic education and a complete anathema to the politics of teachers' unions -- Christmas Eve night. Care and feeding instructions included, so that you may have years of enjoyment and benefit from your new teacher. A much better experience than was had with that hamster-crossed-with-a-piranha thing, two years ago. Sorry 'bout that one. Elves sometimes design the darndest things. That elf is still on polar bear pooper-scooper patrol, 'til he has a better grasp of gift design, but I digress.
I am also granting you, and all the children of the world, something I grant every year, but appears to be needed more than ever right now: a matching set for you and those nearest and dearest. Love. Understanding. Compassion. Care. And most of all, forgiveness. It starts within you, and is shared freely. Give what you expect, and be the friend you want to have.
I like smiles at Christmas time, and this year more than any recently, smiles are needed. See? I knew I could get one out of you. Uh, you've got a piece of french fry in your teeth....that's better. What a wonderful smile.
In fact, I'll live up to my gift and start by pardoning that recalcitrant elf for the hamster/piranha thing. Long as he doesn't try to design piranha footwarmers, that is.
And yes, you may leave the cookies in the same place. Remember, I like chocolate chip/butterscotch chip cookies, with a cup of fresh 100% Colombian coffee. And apples for the reindeer. It gives them gas, something they need this night. I just don a mask and deal widdit. Ho ho ho!
Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas to those who appreciate it! Merry Christmas to those who don't ;-)

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

A Knight (er 2) Before Christmas

I like Christmas. I did as a kid. I still do as an adult, even though I work 'em more often than not.
But there is one part of Christmas I can definitely do without: the shopping-for-gifts part. Hum, bahbug. More on that in a mo'.
One of the up and coming blogs I visit -- Da Pixie Pages -- did a rather revealing expose recently on Christmas, as it regards party and gift preparation, and how it was largely a task one gender is ill-prepared to handle. Speaking as one of that gender that has been judged ill-prepared at handle-ance, I am here to take a stand and speak on at least my own defense, if not that of my gender at large.
I plead guilty as analyzed ;-)
I much prefer to leave party planning, preparation, gift selecting, getting and wrapping -- especially wrapping, as my family knows from some of my forest-ravaging wrapping expeditions -- to those more emotionally prepared and hardened in the ways and wiles of, what I will call, "hard Target combat pre-and-post shopping". It leaves me better prepared for the task to which I am more genetically suited: eating pie and watching holiday football games.
It was not always thus with me.
Some years ago -- the number is not as important as is the fact I haven't yet erased the memory -- I found myself in a sit-ee-ation that apparently many of my gender find themselves in: Christmas less than a week away, and I ain't got squat bought. And I didn't care. Truth be told, I wasn't worried. Stores were open later. There was time. Get there, get in, get out, just as I always did when I shopped any other time of the year. Hooha.
There was time, alright: time to learn the hazards of desperate, last-minute Christmas shopping and shoppers. And much had this grasshoppah to learn, including commuting to the store from the parking lot. I finally found a spot on Christmas Eve; I had started looking on the 22nd. I wasn't trained or prepared for what amounted to close-quarters, mano-a-mano combat over what was left on the shelves, like when I happened to be in the path of a full-court press for what I thought I heard to be "the last tickle my elbow doll" on a shelf I happened to be in the way of. I never did see what it was; the shopper momster that blindsided me left me in the Tupperware aisle, and I had no idea where it was, let alone how I got from where I'd been.
All I know is, that's why everyone got Tupperware that particular Christmas, and I digress.
So the next year, I decided to prepare. I didn't bother to return the suit of armor I'd borrowed for Halloween that year, figuring that when it was time for Christmas shopping this year, I'd be impervious to momster "tickle my elbow" stampedes, or whatever.
This time, I started looking for a parking spot on the morning of the 22nd, and found one by mid-afternoon. Then began the laborious process of donning the armor, which had to wait until I got out of the car. I correctly reckoned I couldn't have gotten out, if donned aforehand.
My first minor miscalculation was in reaching the store from the car: I was out in the "North 40" parking lot of the maul*, a nice brisk hike to the nearest maul* entrance. In about 150 lbs of armor, I moved like a tank that'd thrown a track. I made it to the doors at closing time.
It wasn't a difficult decision for me to wait for opening on the 23rd; it'd of taken 'til just about then to get back to my car.
Once the store opened the next morning, I clanked on in, and promptly discovered that my view through the helmet visor was obstructed: all the suddenly-wailing sirens indicated I'd walked in through the exit, and tripped every 'theft' detector therein. Thenceforth, I at least shopped with the visor 'up'.
Ever shop in a suit of armor? Try reaching for anything. At least I was spared the dings and boinks as I was bumped into by badly-pushed shopping carts of the late and frantic. Long as I didn't fall over, anyway. Which I didn't think was possible, save for me tripping on something.
*Buzzer* Wrong..
Finally, as late afternoon of the 23rd was giving way to darkness, I had my cart, laden with Christmas wares, within sight of the check out lines. Good thing too, 'cuz with the sweat I'd worked up inside the armor, I was rusting from the inside out, and squeaking worse than a door in a horror flick. No one could miss my approach, or so I deluded myself.
It was then that I was hit from behind, and landed, armored keister-first, in a manically-driven, shopper momster cart, probably squashing everything that had preceded me therein. Despite my protestations -- I couldn't move, just rustily squeak and clank -- the female shopper was not of a mind to stop and "put me back on the shelf", even as I explained in more colorfully metaphoric language that I wasn't off the f***ing shelf.
It wasn't until I was unceremoniously whisked into a checkout line in a cart that was screaming to be liberated from 375 lbs of generally dead weight (me and the armor), that the clerk began to suspect something was amiss with the "toy knight with a potty mouth", when she couldn't scan me...I had no barcode. The shopper thence immediately began demanding a replacement for me, as I was "clearly defective". Shortly thereafter -- when it was finally determined that I was not a "50% off" item and my defects were not by Mattel, store security rescued me with a forklift, and I -- convinced to be shorn of my armor -- managed to get out of there by the 24th.
Nowadays, I have a greater appreciation for the hardiness of holiday shoppers, and I am better prepared than ever for the rigors and demands of the season. I plan, I organize, and I move with alacrity as I shop online, at home, before Halloween.
It leaves me better prepared for what's really important on Christmas: gathering with family and friends, and leaving the pre-gather preparation to those genetically best suited for it. As Clint Eastwood once opined, "a man's got to know his limitations".
And have I ever learned mine. Each Christmas since, I stick to what I am genetically best at: eating pie and watching football.
* a curious maulamorphosis that takes place from the day after Thanksgiving, to the last of the post-Christmas sales..also knowd as Melee Christmas..