Category: Christmas

Santa knows when you’ve been good or bad.
He also knows if you’re a good or bad credit risk.
Credit rating agencies constantly ask Santa for assessments.
Because it’s easy to fool the credit rating agencies.
Or fill their records with all kinds of false reports.
But, try as you might, you can’t fool Santa.
Leaving milk and cookies on the mantel is one way to get your credit score up.
And sending a thank you note after Christmas will net you a few points.
As for sexual favors, well, the naughtier, the better your chances for a Gold card.

It was the first Christmas for the peacekeeping mission, and we sent out teams with trees and ribbons and gifts and supplies to make nice with the Christian minority population.
We were greeted with hugs and thanks and what little they could scrape up, offering candies and treats and dances and songs.
Wreaths on their doors and a moment of peace and love in their hearts.
We might as well have painted bullseyes on their front doors.
The deathsquads sent out more men to shoot and blow them up.
The green of Islam, the red of Christian blood.
Merry Christmas.

I remember when candy canes were made by hand.
Every step… mixing, heating, rolling, stretching, and so on.
All done by people.
As each machine took its place in the line, there would be people putting things in it or taking things out of it.
But there were still people involved.
Eventually, the machines all connected to other machines, a fully integrated process, and no room was left for people.
They clean themselves now, they manage themselves, and they repair themselves too.
The candy canes taste horrible, but they look nice.
We just put them on the tree these days.

It’s a strange situation.
Santa doesn’t believe in the Easter Bunny.
The Easter Bunny doesn’t believe in The Great Pumpkin.
The Great Pumpkin doesn’t believe in The Loch Ness Monster.
The Boogeyman. Bigfoot. The Monster Under the Bed.
And so on. All the way down to Jesus.
Nobody believes in him anymore.
Not even himself.
So, they made a union. The Mythical Creatures and Beings Union.
And they all committed to believe in each other.
They had regular meetings, kept statistics, and offered mentoring.
After a while, everybody believed in everything.
The world became a very scary and weird place.

We built a line of snowmen along the driveway, all with twig arms out in salute.
My dad would drive past them and salute back.
Then, we’d knock over the snowmen and spray red food dye on them.
When dad came back, he was horrified at the carnage.
But the real horror wasn’t until Spring.
Because the red food dye was toxic to grass.
We ended up spending the summer reseeding, resodding, and fertilizing the bald patches in the lawn.
And when the winter came again, we weren’t allowed to make snowmen again.
Or go anywhere near the kitchen cabinet.

So, Eartha Kitt asked Santa for a bunch of things.
She wanted a sable coat, a light blue convertible car, a yacht, a platinum mine, a duplex, and checks.
I know she was a champion for civil rights and social causes, but seriously: what a greedy bitch.
In the song, she claims that she passed on a lot of fun and kissing guys, but didn’t the CIA report on her say she was a sadistic nymphomaniac?
Which is it? What’s the truth?
Okay, so maybe she didn’t kiss any of the guys, but if the catsuit and whip fits, right?

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.

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.”

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.