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?
Christmas jerky
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.
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.
Weekly Challenge #762 – Cluster
- Lizzie
- Richard
- Serendipidy
- Tom
- Norval Joe
- Planet Z
LIZZIE
Throw it in the bin and forget about it.
But this area is a cluster of infected cases.
Throw it in the bin and forget it.
Walking away is not an easy task when your conscience nags you.
He had to go back. He grabbed the bin, dragged it away to the dump area and chuck it into the fire.
The bin was closed the whole time. He made sure of it.
When he got ill, he was tossed in that same neighborhood, forgotten.
The others, they kept throwing infected stuff in the bin, carelessly, just like they did before
RICHARD
This is it…
“This is it… We’re going to die!”
Emily voiced what we’d all been thinking, but couldn’t bring ourselves to say.
The cluster of meteorites glittered; green sparkles on the radar screen. Each the size of a football pitch, with a combined mass that meant the earth was doomed.
It was just a matter of time now.
There would be no last ditch space rescue missions, no desperate missile strikes, no long shots… But it might just work.
This was it. Immanent global extinction.
I swallowed, then heard my own voice, matter of fact and steady.
“Yes, we’re going to die.”
SERENDIPIDY
A cluster of deaths.
Such an evocative term.
One or two, or just the occasional passing barely raises an eyebrow, but a cluster is something else entirely.
Follow it with the words, ‘in suspicious circumstances’, ‘in the local area’, displaying the same pattern’, or ‘by an unknown cause’, and you have the beginnings of a recipe for fear, panic and rampant speculation.
And whilst people are entirely distracted by the cluster – my favourite diversionary tactic – I can pick off whoever I want, in ones and twos, occasionally and without displaying any clear pattern or similarities.
And nobody will ever notice.
TOM
The following is more a moment than a story. Also I need to drop the name for those living and dead. A vastly popular women in our county had died. The memorial service was to be done in a theater with over 700 people present. The day of the event I got a call in San Jose they need a sound guy. I had to drive 120 mile in 2 hours. Do the math. Somehow I defied physics and got there on time. The woman who had called me said they had found someone, hadn’t I got the message. I said, “What the fuck, this is a total cluster fuck.”
NORVAL JOE
Dergle Vander Hoont, his wiener dog growling from his hiding place in the bulky man’s coat, joined several other odd looking men and women who clustered around the federal agents. The man covered in dust growled in a genial way at Bilbert’s mother, “You can take your son and go, Gladys. We’ll take care of these two clowns.”
As Billbert’s mother ushered him toward the car, Linoliamanda and her family reappeared from an exam room. Linoliamanda’s head was wrapped in a white, gauze bandage.
“Hold on, Mrs. Blanketmaker,” Mr. Withybottom boomed. “I’d like a word with you about your son.”
PLANET Z
The Cluster is a group of stars, about twenty thousand light years from Earth.
We’ll send you the coordinates and spectral signatures.
There’s a man we want.
What’s his name?
Doesn’t matter.
You’re going to destroy the planet he’s on.
So, here’s a solar detonator.
You blow up the star, the flares destroy the planet.
What about the rest of the people on that planet?
Who cares?
Here’s half the contract, and half when you finish the job.
Just be sure to get out of the system before the star explodes.
Otherwise, I’m getting a half-off deal on the contract.
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?