It’s a family tradition that we hang their stockings from the mantel on Christmas.
That way, Santa Claus can leave presents for us in the stockings.
Grandma hung one of her compression socks from the mantel.
Santa brought her some Ohama Steaks.
She slept late, we had lit a fire in the fireplace, and the compressed steak ended up as beef jerky.
Which Grandma ended up giving to us, since jerky isn’t all that good on her dentures.
“Gee, thanks, Grandma,” we said, staring at the leg-sweat seasoned meat sticks. “Merry Christmas.”
We gave the disgusting things to the dog.
Category: My stories
Increased drag Christmas
For centuries, eight reindeer pulled Santa’s sleigh.
Santa expanded the roster to nine when air pollution necessitated Rudolph’s bright nose.
Despite ever-increasing payloads and deliveries, Santa and his crew did their job.
Until Clover the horse wanted to join.
Sure, he was a horse. He couldn’t fly.
But he identified as a pegasus.
“See my cardboard wings?”
“You’re kidding, right?” said Santa.
Clover wasn’t. And he sued for discrimination.
The case went to the Supreme Court.
Santa lost.
He never delivered presents to judges or lawyers ever again.
“Not enough time,” he’d say. “The increased drag is slowing everything down.”
Woke Christmas Morning
People are protesting Charlie Brown Christmas because Franklin the black kid is forced to sit in a lawn chair on the other side of the table.
They’re also protesting Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer as bigoted.
And the song “Baby It’s Cold Outside” has run afoul of the Me Too Movement, who claim the lyrics are tantamount to date rape.
Not to mention that some radical Muslims get offended by people wishing them Merry Christmas at all.
I asked Santa for a baseball bat.
Aluminum? Wood? Carbon-fiber? As long as it’s not Whiffle.
I just want to beat myself senseless sometimes.
The Taps
It all started with a pub that offered beer on tap.
Just one beer available on tap. Nothing fancy.
Then, the pub next door offered two different beers on tap.
So, of course, the first pub needed to offer three.
And the pub next door offered four.
Five… six… seven… ten… fifteen… twenty…
Pretty soon, both of the pubs had a massive wall of taps.
The bartenders now spend more time changing kegs and tap handles and checking lines than actually serving beer.
It’s crazy behind that wall.
I like to go in and ask to see the wine list.
The Diet
In the past year, I’ve lost almost seventy pounds.
That’s a lot, and it took a lot to do that.
I cut out all candy, all fried foods, all red meat.
Pretty much all meat, really. I’m practically vegan.
No alcohol, either. Don’t drink your calories.
I walk on my treadmill for at least an hour a day.
If I eat more, I walk more and I eat less later to make up for it.
There’s a handy little app on my phone to track it all.
Except for my sheer hatred for all these fast food commercials, of course.
Quitting Time
Made it in to work just fine.
A little late, who cares?
Went through the usual rituals.
Make tea, get ice water, start music.
That kind of thing.
I have a list on the door to remind me.
When I am ready to work, I look at the list again.
Just to make sure I didn’t forget anything.
And then, I work.
Or, at least, I pretend to work.
There’s not much to do.
So, I make a show of doing something.
Then when it’s an hour or so to quitting time, I pack up, clean up, and go home.
Pizza and Guinness Day
Don’t call it Turkey Day.
I never have turkey on Thanksgiving.
Instead, I go by Kennealy’s Irish Pub and order a pizza to go.
Then I have a Guinness while I wait.
I call it Pizza and Guinness Day.
You can call it non-traditional, but tradition is when you do something every year.
And every year, I have pizza and Guinness, so it’s a tradition for me.
It’s far better than slaving over a hot stove for hours.
Instead, I stare at a hot bartender for minutes.
And cleanup is as simple as tossing the empty box in the trash.
Trump Pardon
Every year, the president pardons the White House turkeys.
And yet, they hold a Thanksgiving banquet every year that features turkey.
So what’s the difference between the turkeys who get pardoned and the turkeys who get slaughtered, cooked, and eaten?
Is there such a thing as a turkey crime?
And why don’t they ever pardon the cranberries or stuffing or the mashed potatoes?
When I become president, I’m going to pardon the mashed potatoes.
I’ll even make that my platform: vote for me, and I’ll pardon the mashed potatoes.
But not the gravy. Because that would be crazy, you know?
Unit Seven F
A reprimand for Unit Seven F.
That makes three this week.
Seven F is usually reliable. Very reliable.
No reprimands at all before this week.
And now, there are three.
That’s not good. That’s not good at all.
Check the readings. Check the logs. Check everything.
Everything seems normal.
But then, everything seemed normal for Unit Twelve B.
And we all know what happened with Twelve B.
Those poor people, I can’t get their screams out of my head.
Maybe if we take Unit Seven F offline for a day or two.
Just to be safe. Just to make sure.
Breakfast Is
Breakfast is a cigarette and a cup of coffee.
Nobody has time for lunch.
Dinner is what’s left in the bottle. And another cigarette, if there’s any left.
Maybe a date will make you breakfast the morning after.
At her place, of course. There’s nothing at mine.
Except the coffee. And cigarettes. And the bottle.
Weddings, birthdays, funerals… those times, okay, I’ll eat something.
I’ll pick something up off of the buffet.
Before I head to the bar and grab a bottle.
Grab a pack of cigarettes out of somebody’s coat pocket.
I’ll have my dinner now, and breakfast tomorrow.