Mayan Calendar Conundrums

We've all been hearing about it. And now it's here: 2012. The 'End' of the Mayan Calendar. And what some are choosing to prophesize as "End Times".

Y2K was supposed to herald in 'end times'. So were two days in 2011, courtesy of the koolaid drinker, Rev. Harold Camping, mathematician emeritless.

The original Mayan Calendar -- I believe represented to the right h'yar -- was the creation of that celebrated Mayan astronomer and calendarer Balaj Chan K'hallmark. He would later design the first Chinese astrology placemats for restaurants, centuries before anyone knew he had. But I digress.

K'hallmark took a plethora of things into consideration (seasons, astronomy, human life span, events, weather, painful rectal itch, and some really good hallucinagens), and then designed this calendar that no one could read, but thought looked 'purdy', back in 3114 BC (Before Calendars). According to researchers, the calendar is meant to run 5126 years, more or less.

Which brings us to it ending in 2012. Some learned pundits insist that it ends on 12-21-12. Others believe they've found a Harold-Camping-mathematical-error in the calculations, and actually believe it will expire on or about 2-12-13.

If true in the case of the latter, this will save a lot of guys who were about to screw up with their Valentine's Day gift choices.

Meantime, we are confronted with the apparent fact that we have a Mayan calendar that apparently expires 10 days before 2012 does.

I happened to mention this to one of my ever-inquisitive researchers over at Bonco, UnInc., the place that creates abominations like the AB-Dominationizer and Phfffft Asure, and the subsequent *TOING* made me immediately regret it.

Bonco, UnInc., is in the process of designing and releasing a new calendar that will 'fix' the loss of ten days* from 2012, by simply adding them to 2011.

They call it Simplicity gone Chronological by Bonco. I call it Bonco gone la-la.

While they last**, Bonco will have in stock amended 2011 Calendars. When the stroke of midnight is struck on December 31, 2011...it will simply become December 32, 2011. The big ball in NYC's Time Square will now not fall until the stroke of midnight that closes out December 41, 2011.

And yes, Bonco realized that this is going to f*** with a wealth of computer-run software and systems that are currently geared to the standard Gregorian calendars. So they have designed*** a 'patch' for said systems, which they say should be ready in time****.

So worry not: thanks to Bonco*****, 2011 is extended for the 10 days that 2012 was screwed out of by a Mayan with a penchant for making calendars while high.

Of course, there are those who buy into none of the Mayan Calendar prophesies, and are sure that life will go on, whether it be 12-22-12, or 2-13-13.

What does my pet rock, Seymour, say? "Phfffft. Just cover your bases, and celebrate Christmas early".

* using a chronological formula that didn't work for making cheese fries or curing ham that was already dead. But Bonco will keep trying until they find some use that works

** The printers are still LTAO at the idea, so they ain't been printed yet

*** The Bonco software engineer did suggest that due to inadequate testing of the 'patch', certain cyber 'anomalies' may result from applying the 'patch' to your cyber device, to include horrific cyber gas, or turning your Ipad into a carnivorous tampon which has eyes for small pets

**** The same guys that got lost with the Bonco Time Accelerator-Decelerator during the testing phase, are allegedly working on this project. So it may already have been done 5,000 years ago....or in 2912 AD. No one knows for sure. Does anybody know what time it is? Does anyone really care?

***** DISCLAIMER: Bonco, UnInc., asserts plausible deniability for any time warping, fruitcaking, ipod morphing, or attacks by carnivorous tampons, that may or may not be able to be associated to the 2012 Mayan Calendar 'patch' designed by Bonco engineers during their last seanance with Balaj Chan K'hallmark, at a frat party on the CU Boulder campus. Your results may vary from even weirder, to it just flat not working. In the case of the former, write and tell us about it if you live. In the case of the latter, simply return the unused portion to Bonco, UnInc, for a full "WTF shrug" from the US Postal Service, who has no idea what our address is. Bonco, UnInc, is a for profit corporation that's still trying to make one, and that's why Occupy Outhouses hasn't shown up to picket us yet..besides, they can't find us either.

Crop Dusted

There is a connection between this post and part of the photo h'yar (William Shatner & wonky friend, from an old Twilight Zone episode).

There is also a connection between the coming subject, and the title.

In another time, place and pay grade, my job for one of those evil, mean corporations was as something of a security trouble shooter. Lots of unexplained emphasis on the "something", but I digress.

Anyway, on one particularly memorable flight, I noted on my boarding pass that I had been granted the seat in coach officially designated as '2B'. It was the first time in my flying days that I'd ever landed that seat assignment.

And after the flight, I swore it'd be the last. And I don't care if Willie Shakespeare takes offense at that or not.

It was supposed to be a routine trip: Denver to Chicago O'Hare. Drive from O'Hare to Elkhart, IN. A couple of day assignment, then back home. Eh.

The 'Bard should have warned me about the flight out.

Settled into my '2B' seat, I tucked my briefcase on the floor beneath the seat ahead of me, and after eyeing my seatmate for the flight -- a rather annoyed-looking woman in business attire who apparently couldn't get upgraded to First Class, from the amount of bitching she was doing to any flight attendant who regretfully ventured within earshot -- I fetched my trusty reading material from my case and settled in for the 2 hour (or so) flight. For this flight, my literary choice was The Caine Mutiny.

Even it would prove appropo before long.

After the smooth takeoff and relatively turbulence-free ascent to cruising altitude, I eased my seat back just a tad, and got as comfortable as my 6' 2" frame could get in '2B'. I was just learning how Midshipman Keith and roommates had managed to avoid fateful demerits for chasing an errant spring from a bolt action rifle out of their room and onto their dorm roof, when 'it' came a calling.

'It' didn't speak. 'It' was invisible. 'It' had no discernible form or substance. But 'it' was unforgettable. And unforgiveable.

A burst of sulphuric, rotten eggish flatulence. One that chose to savor the moment, and linger overly long, like two lovers at an outdoor restaurant, lingering over wine and moonlight.

They'd be an "awwww" moment. This was an "ack phooey" one.

The woman seated next to me gave me a "Was that YOU?!!??", almost accusatory stare. Attempting not to lose what stomach contents I had at the time, I managed one of those "It wasn't me" shrugs. I don't think she believed me, but the damning glare shifted away from me and resumed burning holes through the nearest flight attendant for not managing to upgrade her.

Mercifully, 'it' finally dissipated into the forgiving atmosphere, and I was able to wipe the involuntary tears from my eyes and resume my book.

About ten minutes later....it was baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. As stark, pungent, and lingering as before.

I wasn't at first sure where 'it' was launching its hit and linger attacks from, but I was slowly beginning to focus on the seat ahead of me as the likely source. At the same time I started to wonder if perhaps the 'Bard was punishing me for having made fun of his writings in my junior high and high school days. My seatmate's glare took on a more viral, menacing radiance. Had it been a laser, I would have vaporized.

Again, I gave with a "it wasn't me, Ma'am", and watched as that penetrating glare was almost overcome by eyes rolling back in the head from the persistent, potent miasma.

And, once again, after an unmerciful minute or so, 'it' dissipated.

But like a bad re-gift for the holidays, it came back yet again. And again. And again. Always at about ten minute intervals.

I knew there was someone sitting in the seat directly in front of me. I began to wish I'd paid attention to what they looked like. I might have been able to arrange for another seat if I'd known I would be sitting behind one half of the future Terrence & Philip fart team from South Park fame.

When the attendants were bringing the beverage cart by and were serving me and Ms LaserEyes, another 'it' emerged from deep from within the depths of methanic Hell. The look on the face of the flight attendant -- trained to handle a plethora of aerial emergencies -- was priceless. A heart-felt "are you F***ing KIDDING ME?", to which both I and Ms. LaserEyes responded with "nuh uh, not me" looks, and I suggestively nodded to the seat ahead of me.

My complimentary pack of peanuts pried its way into my briefcase, which was trying to flee down the aisle from the persistent, lethal miasma. Even characters from the book I was reading were changing the book font into capital letters spelling out "DUDE!" The USS Caine's stack gas wasn't this bad. My fresh cup of coffee never had a chance; it chose instant evaporation over trying to mask the miasma with a more pleasant aroma of 100% Columbian.

Both Juan Valdez and his mule were laid waste.

I kept trying to read a book that was trying to mutiny along with all the characters therein, but with the every ten minute assault on my olfactories, I was finding myself trying to concentrate more on taking a deep 'hold it' breath just ahead of the next miasmic assault. I never quite got the timing down. Meanwhile, there was a growing concern that with each new 'it', the lift was pushing us past the certified top 'ceiling' of a 737. I could have sworn at one point we were pacing a satellite out my window. After another 'it', the satellite fell into the atmosphere and mercifully burned up.

I didn't mourn it; it was free. We still weren't.

There was always the chance that some measure of manners would overcome the engine of a farter planet, and whatever was sitting in the seat ahead of me would go pay a visit to the on-board outhouse and relieve us of that engine of methanic Hell. But the mystery occupant of '1B' never left his/her/its seat to avail itself of the minature flying outhouse on this becoming cursed 737.

And the ten minute intervalled miasmic paint peelers continued, right into O'Hare. I never thought I'd be so happy to take on Chicago rush hour traffic.

What brought this starkly to my memory fore, you ask? It was a recent workplace reference by a coworker of mine, after some unnamed soul therein had unleashed an atmospheric 'adjustment' that was, on a scale of 0-10 (with 10 being an Extinction Level Event), a 100.99. After picking himself up off the floor from where that particular olfactoric 'haymake' had planted him, he poignantly demanded to know "Dang, dudes...who's crop dusting?"

No one spoke. But someone 'giggled'. Or maybe it was....some'thing'.

War and Remembrance: Wake

70 years ago, at about the same time that Pearl Harbor was being pummeled by a Japanese sneak attack, a Japanese air attack was also launched against the small atoll of Wake Island, in the central Pacific, roughly between Hawaii and the Philippines. The island was home to a Pan American air service operation, a small military airstrip, about 500 USMC and Navy personnel, along with 1220 assorted civilian contractors.

The air attack on Wake achieved surprise: land-based bombers from the Marianas succeeded in destroying 8 of the 12 F4F Wildcat fighters of VMF-211 on the ground, and costing the squadron almost half of it's personnel.

War had come to Wake.

Three days later -- December 11 -- a small Japanese invasion fleet approached Wake, consisting of three light cruisers, six destroyers, two patrol boats, and two transports, carrying 450 Japanese Marines. The Japanese anticipated no problem with taking Wake Island from the garrison known to be on the island, such was their confidence in themselves and arrogance in their belittling view of Americans.

The Marines and Navy personnel on Wake gave the Japanese a wake-up call.

A key part of the Wake defense system were six 5" guns, positioned strategically around the three islets that made up Wake (Wake, Peale, and Wilkes islets). Supported by 399 Marines, the remaining four F4Fs of VMF-211, and commanded by US Navy Cmdr Winfield Cunningham and Marine Major James Devereux, defenders was ready when the Japanese task force was sighted in the pre-dawn hours of December 11. Gunners of the 5" batteries withheld their fire until the task force was well within range, and then unleashed deadly accurate fire upon the task force: one Japanese light cruiser was badly damaged, and one destroyer was lost with all hands; equipped with aerial bombs, the four Wildcat fighters attacked, sinking a second destroyer. With that, the Japanese landing attempt was aborted, and the bloodied task force withdrew.

After a string of early victories, Japan had received her first 'check' in the Pacific.

In reporting the repulse -- and requesting supplies and reinforcements -- Cmdr. Cunningham is reputed to have included in his message, "Send us more Japs". It was heady stuff in the immediate aftermath of Pearl Harbor, and in view of the bleak news from other areas of the Pacific. At Pearl Harbor, Admiral Kimmel immediately arranged for reinforcements and supplies, and dispatched them on a task group centered around the aircraft carrier USS Saratoga.

The Japanese -- chastened by their spirited repulse -- reorganized their attack, and set off to not make the same mistakes twice. Besides land-based air attacks to neutralize Wake's "fangs" (the 5" batteries and remaining aircraft), the Japanese reinforced their task force with two of the carriers that had successfully attacked Pearl Harbor (the Hiryu and Soryu), as well as reinforced their invasion force with over 1,000 additional troops.

Sadly, with the relief of Admiral Kimmel by Admiral William Pye, the Saratoga force was recalled; Pye wasn't willing to take the risk of additional ship losses after Pearl Harbor. Cunningham and Devereux were advised that they were on their own; knowing what that meant, they prepared their meager force as best as they could, and waited.

On the early morning of December 23, 1941, the Japanese task force returned and attacked. The battle ashore was fierce -- two Japanese patrol boats used to land troops, were shot up and destroyed, and Japanese troop casualties were heavy, with the Marine contingent on Wilkes islet, counterattacking and wiping out the Japanese troops that had landed there -- but the Marines, badly outnumbered and out-gunned, were forced back, and by mid-afternoon, were forced to surrender. Survivors -- combatants and all but 99 of the civilian contractors -- were fated to almost four harsh years as POWs, transported to work camps deep within the Empire, where a number of them perished due to abuse, disease and starvation. The 99 retained on Wake were kept as slave labor, only to face a barbaric end.

After an attack by a US naval task force in October, 1943, the Japanese brutally executed the 99 civilian contractors they had kept on Wake. Retribution for this atrocity would come after the war.

The island was returned to American control when the Japanese garrison surrendered on September 4, 1945; Cmdr Cunningham and Major Devereux survived imprisonment, and returned to witness the Japanese surrender.

Wake Island, December 7-23, 1941. Remembered here, 70 years later.

Bonco's Unusual Holiday Gift Ideas

*A reprint from 2009, and a suggestion for last minute Christmas shoppers who are looking for something they can't find. This is definitely one of those. Sixth in the series of three *suspended disbelief* products by Bonco, almost ready for your gift giving needs this holiday season...and yes, we know we can't count. Please note the *suspended disbelief*

"Necessity is the mother of invention" -- Plato.

An intellectually stimulating way to start a column about the newest product in development by the folks at Bonco, UnInc., the same folks who brought you useful* things like the ABDOMINATION-IZER, PHFFFT Asure, and the EZ-Nav One!

"What mothuh thought it necessary to invent THIS?" -- me.

A back-to-reality way to prepare you for the rest of the story.

While winter's in the air, spring isn't all that far off, and with spring comes that itch to get to gardening, farming, etc. Of course, for any kind of agricultural activity to be successful, Ma Nature's benevolent cooperation is always a plus.

One can assume that benevolence, but as Captain Queeg loved to observe, you can't assume a gawddang thing about the Navy, Ma Nature, or much else in life. One ill-timed visit by mesocyclonic supercell thunderstorms, and those waves of amber grain, so laboriously sown, are reduced to the botanical equivalent of Kenny on South Park.

Without this in mind, I and a couple Bonco technicians were re-watching a pathetically laughable scene from the movie Twister: the scene where two stormchasers had just sacrificed his new truck with a jury-rigged tornado laboratory aboard, to an F-5 tornado in a cornfield. And just as the two 'chasers were pondering finding a Motel 6 to celebrate, the twister shifts track, and begins harvesting corn in their direction.

Before I could comment on the abject absurdity of the scene -- a real F-5 would have run them both down in seconds -- I saw the lightbulb of sudden inspiration appear and explode over the head of one of the techs.

This was an "uh-oh" moment, if ever I saw one.

Well, after months of secret research and design, the brains at Bonco are ready to let me in on their latest endeavor: one that brings together an invention of Man, a mother of a natural monstrosity, the necessity of Nature, and the thoroughly ludicrous notion that Bonco can somehow combine the three into a controlled, benevolent, productive invention, user-friendly and agriculturally viable.

They call it The Cyclonic Harvester by Bonco.

I call it the equivalent of a porcupine enema at 150 mph. Not sure which could prove worse.

On a restricted access** preserve in NE Colorado, the (mad) scientists at Bonco have been raising crops -- and then razing crops -- in a Pyrrhic effort to train fauxnados (the laboratory equivalents to the real things), in the intricacies of the harvest. Yes, that's right: they are training one of Ma Nature's most random and savage leviathans, to harvest and deliver crops for the benefit of Mankind.

The theory they labor under -- that of it they revealed to me -- is that, like in the movie Jurassic Park, if a fauxnado is artificially conceived under lab conditions, upon birth it will 'bond' with it's creator. In this case, a flock of lab-coated, absent-minded professor types. And from this first 'bonding', the transformation from awesome natural force of destruction, to benevolent, Man-loving contributor for the greater good, can be crafted.

I seem to recall a different result from the aforementioned movie -- the hatchlings tried to eat their creators -- but my negative waves weren't buying any second-thought capital at this point.

While Bonco won't discuss the patented*** and highly technical details of how they've managed to delu..er..achieve the uncredible progress they claim thus far, unnamed and scattered sources have revealed some..er...'pre-production issues' on the road to marketing. For example:

- a novice F-3 that was assigned to harvest, bale and stack a 200 acre field of hay. Net result: they found only some of the baling twine. 70 miles away, in Nebraska.

- when a gifted F-4 successfully harvested and shucked 100 acres of seed corn; it then got cornfused, and offloaded the shucked cobs into and through the designated holding structures, while decorating and perforating property outbuildings over two successive counties with billions of imbedded kernels. Litigation pending.

- an eager and willing but clumsy F-3, had to be told, via a rather pricey tornado whisperer, to put down the farm house, gently, and back away carefully. It didn't work, and the F-3 is now in therapy. What's left of the house is in Kansas.

- a rather immature F-2 that simply couldn't resist levitating and playing dominos with dairy cows on a nearby farm, and is now on time-out (how they're managing that, they're not saying and I'm not buying).

- lastly, there is another unanticipated problem: the "call of the wild" effect. When a real tornado happens by (and here, May-July, it can be often), the human-friendly assimilative training the fauxnados undergo is mildly**** undermined. A tornado is, after all, hardwired to roam free and at random, scattering terra firma and mobile homes like a bored cat does with pieces on a gaming board. A fauxnado, though man-made and at least as smart as a politician, still operates from a similar meteorological dynamic template.

To paraphrase Dr. Ian Malcolm, "Nature finds a way".

Ever undeterred by technical setbacks, pick-ups, unsubtle put-downs, warnings and lots of debris, the Bonco folks are determined to have their Cyclonic Harvester ready for the annual Farm Implements and Technologies Show***** in Omaha, NE, in the spring of 2012.

Omaha, I've given you all the warning you'll ever need.

* a claim/allegation yet to be substantiated in a lab or court

** like an asylum, families can come and visit the inmates at the 'preserve', too. Few have; small wonder why..

*** nonsense

**** more like humongus...

***** Disclaimer: if Bonco, UnInc., sets up a booth at the aforementioned show, it is hoped that the folks running the show have the sense to have Bonco conduct demonstrations of the Cyclonic Harvester at a site well away from the show, the city, and any populations. After all, we ARE dealing with a product that combines innovative technology with a force of Nature that, er, isn't easily amused with or corralled by innovative technology. Bonco only guarantees that the results of using the Cyclonic Harvester will be, in the words of one survivor, "absolutely f***ing stupdefying". FTC Disclaimer: no recompense of any kind changed hands at this stage of development; one of these Cyclonic Harvesters experiencing 'technical difficulties' could have all sorts of appendages changing geographic locations, but that's for future litigation and storm chasers to sort out.

A Small Medium At Large

With the approach of calendar 2012, my pet rock, Seymour, has emailed from his current digs in Loveland, Colorado, that he has had a "psychic vision". In fact, a whole series of them.

I suspect overexposure to one of my sister's horses' road apples, but I digress.

"Is NOT!!!"

At any rate, my pet rock has decided to weigh in with his premonitions for the upcoming year. *NOTE: the writer of this blog is not necessarily endorsing the following premonitions...unless they're funnier than any he could come up with*

Thus I bring to you, Seymour the Pet Rock's Psychic Predictions of 2012 (with me, for the most part, resisting occasional editorial comments):

- January 2 will follow January 1

- There will be a presidential election in November

- Someone will lose it

- Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Kim Karcrashian will be in the news in 2012

- Like 2011, not for anything worthwhile

- I will have more "phfffts!" for Skunk in '12 (on this, we agree)

- The Milwaukee Brewers will win the NBA championship at the Final Four in March (...uh...)

- Zombies will dedicate a statue to Harry Reid as Most Like Them

- MSNBC will cancel their newest show -- My Favorite Islamofascist -- after one episode, when he blows up the set during rehearsal and musses Rachel Madcow's hair (I wonder if they'll run an ad for that during the Super Bowl?)

- MSNBC will NOT run an ad for the aforementioned show during the Super Bowl; they will, however, have Betty White kickboxing Abe Vigoda for an Ensure commercial.

- Time Magazine will name "Occupy" campsites as the newest EPA Superfund sites

- Ted Nugent will NOT be named ambassador to North Korea

- Mel Gibson and Danny Glover will star in "Lethal Weapon XVIII", protecting Hugo "Playdoh" Chavez from Donald Trump's hair

- Rich progressive people who want to pay more taxes in '12 will simply sign over their estates to the IRS

- George Soros won't *Like* this on Facebook

- Baseball season will open in April with the Green Bay Packers defending their title against the Anaheim Mighty Ducks (....um...)

- Joe Biden will lose a few more hair plugs

- Michael Bay will make another bad movie, and the South Park Boys (Parker/Stone) will parody it

- Hawaii Five-0 will still suck for the way they treated Pearl Harbor veterans

- And so will CBS

- Barney Frank will publish a memoir, "How I Let Fannie Mae Do You While I Let Freddie Mac Do Me!"

- Sarah Palin will NOT read it

- Debbie Wasserman-Schultz won't get one iota smarter than a tree stump

- Guam won't tip over...yet

- A tsunami will not wipe out Pahrump, Nevada

- A manatee protest march through Miami will be averted by manatee indifference

- The Denver Broncos -- despite Tim Tebow -- will NOT win the Stanley Cup

- Howard Camping's fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth Rapture predictions will suffer further mathematic errors

- He won't get the ninth one right, either

- a scientist will prove conclusively that a spaceship made out of broccoli won't make a four year aspire to eating it

- December 21, 2012, will be followed by words from our sponsors

- And tax forms from the IRS

- I will travel to at least two out of state locations *hint to Skunk*

- Alien life researchers will think they have *finally* made contact

- It will turn out to be one of the Occupiers, looking for a bathroom

and, last but not least..

- I predict that all of Skunk's readers will always like MY posts best over his!

- *To Skunk* Nyah nyah

Santa Claus Re-writing Your Scams

My pet rock, Seymour, lurves this time of year. Because he thinks he's been good enough to acquire significant largess from The Jolly Big Guy.

I addressed pet rock delusions a few years back. 'Nuff said.

In honor of December, and the major holiday that is sometimes...okay, oft-times forgotten for the religious significance it's meant to reflect -- especially when you're engaged in mortal combat inside of a Walmart -- I decided to recruit hisself for some help in recrafting email scams.

Yes, I 'hired' Santa Claus.

I know...he's supposed to be busier than a three peckered goat in a ewe propagation clinic this time of year. But with the proper incentives*, he was willing to lend me a touch of his creative license.

And one particularly bad-attituded elf with a vituperative pen and wit.

At any rate, I got an email from an improbably named scammer, Zaytuna Owocomes, asking me "with tears in his eyes" to help him out with his dead parent's inheritance.

I turned this one over to the Santa/Raging Elf Syllable Syndicate, and this is the rather...uh...unique result that went back to Zaytuna and 24 of his friends and peers:

Ho Ho Ho,

We'll get around to the innuendo there later. And trust me, that is not meant as an Italian suppository, unless you're Italian and into that kind of thing.

I am writing you with tears in my eyes because I am laughing my jolly fat ass off. Here I am, in my busy season, and what some yutz described me as being "busier than a three peckered goat in a ewe propagation clinic", and THEN has the NERVE to ask me to help rewrite a letter, well...I had to find time for it.

So here's the rewrite...why would you think that I would want an ATM card, an inheritance from some mythical corpse, an online job, or to convince me that I won an online lottery -- when I can't even get a winning raffle ticket in the annual elf "slap and tickle" party raffle -- is simply beyond my jolly fat ass to contemplate.

But it's obvious to me that you need some help. Yes, you do. My spell check found 30 typos and grammatical errors in your email, for starters. Had you devoted some time to basic education, you could have been on par with a class of 2nd graders in Georgia, rather than on par with a senior class of "valleydicktoreeans" out of the DC public skools. I won't get into your habit of sodomizing domestic animals behind the termite mounds just now, but before you act shocked that I know, let's remember who I am.

To business. You will wonder how I got your contact. If you remember who I am, and know a few songs about me, you f***ing already know that. I'm Santa Claus, and my intel service puts Mossad to shame. I even get dishonorable mention on Attackwatch.com! I know you and all about you. I know what you've done this year, how bad you've been, and how unlucrative your bad has been.

But Santa isn't without feeling or compassion.

And to prove it, I am writing to tell you that you need to write to Zaytuna Owocomes, from the Ivory Coast. His late parents left him a huge investment in meerkat compost, and he wants to share it with all of you.

He wrote and told me so.

He also wants to sodomize your domestic animals, have you pay for his breast implants, and pay to help turn him surgically into an inflatable sex toy.

Oh...*perusing the fine print*...guess I wasn't supposed to let you in on that part of his fantasy.

Anyway, I want you all to write to Zaytuna Owocomes at owocomez89@msn.com and help this poor lad realize his fondest hopes and dreams this Yule time. Make sure you tell absolutely EVERYONE YOU KNOW about Zaytuna and his email address. Public restroom walls are great for this. In your case, carving the info into the giant tree you use for a dunny will work as well.
You can also sign up for Zaytuna's email scam list, and for the first 100 to do so, you'll receive a free 8x10 print of Zaytuna Owocomes, sodomizing a goat, with his personal autograph (on the photo, not the goat). Please send him your personal information so he can send you the picture.

And I can promise you, the joy of the smile of delight that you will put on Zaytuna's pockmarked face will be something that is guaranteed to sink a thousand ships and cause thousands of botox treatments of the rich and famous to fail simultaneously.

Now to my opening reference...Lindsay Lohan, I seed your Playboy stuff. HO HO HO...WHOZ YER DADDY!!! I'm not, but I'll play one for the night ;-) I'm up on my shots. But I digress.

On behalf of Zaytuna Owocomes at owocomez89@msn.com

Santa Claus

I hope that makes for an enjoyable avalanche of emails for good ol' Zaytuna. Really.

* a box of chocolate petit fours and a poo catcher to protect him from reindeer 'games' and blowbacks during "The Ride"

Maybe Home Depot has coupons for poo catchers ;-)

I Did NOT Write Anuddah Crispmoose Lettah

*A somewhat annual update to something I insist I'm not doing each year....one of 'those' "what the family dun" Christmas letters*

As y'all know, I don't do these letters. The one that my pet rock, Seymour, forced me to do in '06, and insisted on having updated and reposted in '07 and '08, was done strictly to appease a persnickety pet rock ("am NOT!!").

So let me be clear: I -- me, moi -- will NOT do 'another year of what the family dun' Christmas letters.

Now that we have that made perfectly clear, here 'tis:

-- Ma continues to thrive, garden and churchify in the bucolic burg of ******** Colorado. A more statuesque place you'll not find herebouts, if you know what I mean. If you don't, I won't explain it beyond drive thru and see all the statuesques there'bouts. She's learned computers, email, email forwards, and how to attach photos without the use of safety pins. She still isn't allowed to chase anyone's dogs around the neighborhood, and still follows the Broncos and NASCAR with the same zeal as heretofore or any other number. In short, life is good in Ma-dom.

-- Big Sis #1 continues to rocket sciencify in the easternesque burg of ****** Colorado, where Kansas can still be seed on a clear day, but only if one really wants to look, and no one seems to want to. Her two bionic cats -- Hudson and Edsel -- continue to defy conventional science and vet visits. She is still doing marathons, biathalons, triathalons, quadathalons, sextupathons, octothons, and is thinking of doing a noendinsightathon, wherein she bikes, runs, swims, shoots, spits, throws, hurdles, turkey calls, runs post patterns, crochets, tosses fruitcakes, and manages to get the cats to the vet, all in one handy competition. Life is good -- albeit active -- in 1st Sis-dom.

-- Big Sis #2 & hubster continues to horsify on the outskirts of ******** Colorado, where Kansas can't be seen from -- it's on the wrong side of the highway -- but a horse is a horse of course, of course, unless it's two cows or two dogs, not counting the burro across the fence and the skunks that wander through now and again. Her bucket-chasing 3 year old, Renny, has learned the 'Mr. Ed leer', and uses it to advantage with Lena, especially when she has a pet rock on her back and is having her picture taken. Mara just takes it all in and blames Hubster, who has to deal with an amorous cow, Bessie, and her prodigy Chloe, who don't know how to chase a bucket or to leer, but will chase Hubster. Sis rides, trains, competes on, feeds, waters, grooms and checks the horses for elk envy disease. Renny, Mara and Lena have her trained well. The dogs -- the soccer-playing Merlin, and the oft-*groaning at Merlin* Santa Fe -- take it all in and have no idea or opinion about it, long as they're fed and kept supplied with squeaky chew toys. Life is good in the 2nd Sis-dom.

-- Lil' Bro, Wife and Daughter in ****** Colorado, continue to do what a triad of such does: Lil' Bro -- the other rocket scientist in the famdamily -- continues to rocket sciencify, whilst being taunted via text, cell phone and in person, by his Raiders-supporting daughter, who is now in senior-dom in her 'series of firsts' high school, from which she'll get to be amongst the first senior class to graduate from, giving her another thing to taunt Lil' Bro about. Wife takes it all in and keeps it all working, and keeps at the same time tabs on the other daughter, married to a mountain man in Montana, where they've just put half the animals in the state in their freezer for the winter, to feed their two young 'uns, with a third now on the way. Meantime, Lil' Bro's latest feline Mafia continues to abuse their long-suffering beagle, Merlin, who has gotten used to losing his pet bed to Badda Bing and Badda Boom, or whatever the two cats' names are. Life is good -- for all but Merlin -- in Lil' Bro-dom.

-- And amongst other nieces and nephews from Colorado to Florida, things continue to be what they were, are, and will be, with jobs, growing and new young 'uns, mortgages and being glad they cook better than their crazy uncle, who cooks worse than he doesn't write these letters. Which translates into, by and large, things being good in Niece and Nephew-doms, respectively.

-- and now the part my pet rock has been waiting for: Seymour is continuing his travels and life experiences. After nation-hopping between '07 and '09, he's visited Texas, North Carolina, Virginia, and is currently riding horses and helping piece together puzzles in Loveland, CO. Where he's off to next is still in the air -- pun partially intended -- though he has invites to Arkansas, Louisiana and Califorlornia. Seymour continues to write poetry and music lyrics badly ("do NOT!!!"), and imagines himself to be the next Rock of Letters. Granted he's older than petrified dinosaur poop, and doesn't realize what that means ("do TOO!!! PHHFFFFT!"). At any rate, Seymour probably has more trips pending in 2012, but wants to be here in December of 2012, in case the end comes with the Mayan Calendar, so he can take permanent possession of the DVD remote. Life is pretty good in pet rock-dom, especially for one very spoiled pet rock ("am NOT!!!").

-- finally, since I don't do these letters, I have nothing to report on me. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Bumpkus. I'm boring. Other than experiencing economic changes that seem to parallel career changes in the year quickly closing. I went from gainfully employed, to unemployed, to sorta re-employed, sorta, to finally again re-employed, though having to do some serious catching up to reacquire the "gainfully" part, which won't be caught up anytime soon. Oh, and I'm working on a book about scambaiting, that might or might not be published in '12, before the Mayan Calendar shuts everything down...*snerx*.

The rest is what it's always been, and in my boring case, always will be: being hated by tornadoes on the Plains, online scammers and ex-girlfriends, while I just do what I do. Which ain't much, 'cuz I'm boring ;-)

And that concludes this Crispmoose letter that I didn't write for 2011. Merry Christmas*.

* for the politically correct, yes, I just said that. Offended? Phffft.

70 Years Ago

It began at or around 0755, Hawaii Time on December 7, 1941.

The following call to General Quarters sounded aboard the battleship USS Oklahoma: "Real planes, real bombs; this is no f**king drill!".

Aboard the submarine USS Tautog: "the war is on, no fooling!"

Aboard the USS West Virginia: "Away the fire and rescue party!"

Aboard the old minelayer USS Ogalala: "all ships in harbor sortie!"

Aboard the supply ship USS Castor: "the Japs are bombing us, the Japs are bombing us!"

Aboard the battleship USS Nevada: "All hands, General Quarters! Air Raid! This is no drill!"

Aboard the heavy cruiser USS New Orleans: "Padre, there's planes out there and they look like Japs!"

Aboard the battleship USS California: "Jesus Christ...Jesus Christ!"

Aboard the battleship USS Maryland: "The Japs are here..."

At the Ford Island Administration Building: "Just gotta try to remember this date.."

Aboard the destroyer USS Monaghan: "Hell, I didn't even know they were sore at us!"

The message that shook the world at 0800, Hawaii Time, from the CINCPAC Administration Building: "AIR RAID ON PEARL HARBOR. THIS IS NO DRILL".

From Hickam and Wheeler US Army Air fields: "It's the real thing!"

From naval personnel housing with a view of Pearl Harbor: "there's a battleship tipping over.."

At the Ft. Shafter Catholic chapel: "God bless you all, the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor. Return to your units at once.."

Aboard the battleship USS Arizona: "Fire on the quarterdeck!" moments before the forward magazine exploded, killing over 1000 of the ship's company in an instant (see photo above).

Aboard the heavy cruiser USS San Francisco, one below-decks sailor to another: "I thought I'd come up and die with you".

A Marine aboard the 1010 Dock, standing in the open and firing a rifle at attacking Japanese planes: "If my mother could see me now".

Aboard the destroyer USS Helm as a sailor requested the keys to the ammo lockers: "Damn the keys! Cut the locks!"

A signal from the USS Curtiss: "Submarine sighted to starboard" (one of the midget subs the Japanese sent in to attack ships inside the harbor).

To a flight of B-17s coming in from the mainland, air traffic control reported -- after giving routine wind direction, velocity, and the runway on which to land -- "the field is under attack by unidentified enemy planes".

Aboard the repair ship USS Vestal -- along side the destroyed USS Arizona, after she exploded: "Come back! We're not giving up this ship yet!"

Aboard the destroyer USS Monaghan, an unarmed sailor -- throwing wrenches at passing Japanese planes -- was heard yelling for a gun and ammo: "I can't keep throwing things at them!"

Aboard the destroyer USS Helm as she sortied under attack: "Take her out, I'll direct the (gun) battery".

Aboard the light cruiser USS Helena when a Marine-manned gun mount shot down a Japanese plane: "The Marine team scored a touchdown!"

Aboard the dry-docked battleship USS Pennsylvania, in response to a report that the guns were getting too hot, and should the gunner keep shooting: "Hell yes, keep her going!"

A gunner aboard the light cruiser USS Helena, yelled to the admiral on the bridge of the nearby USS Ogalala: "Pardon me, Admiral sir! Would you mind moving from the wing of the bridge so we can shoot through there?" The admiral complied.

Warning message from a scout bomber off the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise, that was approaching Pearl Harbor, back to the ship: "White 16 -- Pearl Harbor under attack. Do not acknowledge".

Aboard the now sunken battleship USS West Virginia: "History is being made now, and you and I are in the middle of it, and our actions might affect the outcome".

Aboard the battleship USS Tennessee during the height of the air raid: "To hell with fuse settings -- shoot!"

Aboard the seaplane tender USS Curtiss, a mortally wounded sailor to a friend: "My foot's gone, isn't it?".

Aboard the battleship USS California, a sailor stood fast to his station below decks, knowing the ship was sinking: "This is my station -- I'll stay here and give them air as long as the guns are going". He didn't survive.

Aboard the hospital ship USS Solace, a nurse was heard to shout every time she saw a Japanese plane go down: "Woo-woo, there goes another one!"

Above the Marine airfield at Ewa, Japanese pilot Lt. Yoshio Shiga strafed the field, and turned for a run at a Marine standing by a disabled plane. "The man refused to budge...kept firing back with a pistol".

Aboard the dry-docked destroyer USS Downes, an individual sailor fired a .50 caliber machine gun at the Japanese planes as fires swept closer. Witnessed from the USS Pennsylvania: "wondered how long any man could stand that kind of heat. As the flames swept closer, the sailor seemed to have a harder and harder time keeping his head up. Finally he dropped to his knees, head down, but with one hand still hanging on the trigger of the gun. That's the way he was last seen when flames and smoke closed off the view".

Aboard the USS New Orleans: "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!"

From Honolulu Radio KGMB, announcer Webley Edwards: "This is the real McCoy!"

From US Senator Burton Wheeler of Montana, an up-to-then a supporter of isolationism from foreign wars, in response to a reporter's question about Pearl Harbor: "The only thing now is to do our best to lick hell out of them!"

From the floor of Congress, 1229pm Eastern Time, December 8, 1941, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt: "Yesterday, December 7, 1941...a date which will live in infamy..." began his six minute speech that resulted in a formal declaration of war, and brought the United States into World War II (Germany and Italy would declare war on the United States on December 11, 1941, bringing us all the way in).

70 years ago*.

* Source for quotes: Day of Infamy, by Walter Lord