As the year comes to a close and another year begins, some people like to make predictions.
I don’t. Why bother playing guessing games?
What shall we make?
Let’s make things for those who enjoy them.
Let’s make a difference to those who need it.
Let’s make friends, and make them happy, as happy as us.
Let’s make merry and jokes and laugh so others can laugh with us.
Let’s make amends to those we’ve foolishly wronged.
Let’s make every moment count, and make every good moment last.
And, I predict, we will be happier than the ones making predictions.
Tag: cliche
The Art Of Boxing
Ted was a boxer, one of the best.
He wasn’t just a fighter, though.
He was an artist.
Literally, an artist. He’d dip his gloves in the paint, hear the bell, and come out painting his opponent with blows, knocking him down to the canvas over and over.
If they made it past the first round, his corner man would get him more paint, and he’d touch things up in round two.
Then, after the match, the canvas would be pulled up, framed and sold.
Ted eventually lost. KO in the fifth to a Featherweight pointillist.
“Self-Portrait” they called it.
Ventilator
It was Christmas Eve. Grandma was in the hospital, so we brought the tree, presents and whole family to her room.
She’d had a stroke. A bad one.
But her living will told us to spare no effort, so there was the ventilator, pumping away, hiss hiss hiss.
It was sad.
That didn’t stop us, though. We sang Christmas carols, told stories.
“Let’s light the tree,” I said.
And I looked for an outlet.
Hrm. All full.
I pulled out what I thought was the lamp, plugged in the tree.
Everyone sang O Christmas Tree, and the ventilator went silent.
Angry At Birds
I started with a tree with a bird in it, chopping it down.
Shot two doves the next day.
Killed three hens in a local hatchery.
And then pegged four ravens off of a telephone wire.
Killing birds is easy, but collecting the five golden rings would be a challenge.
Rob a jewelry stand at the mall
Mug some housewives for their wedding bands?
I settled for ripping the ear off of a punk outside of a nightclub.
I’m going to the park to bag some geese today.
Hopefully they won’t notice before I go back tomorrow for the swans.
Vampire Claus
People assume vampires are skinny and wear black, but I know a fat one who wears red and white.
Yes, Santa Claus is a vampire.
The bell-ringers? The mall Santas?
Indentured human servants to scout for healthy and wealthy victims.
You can tell a lot about a person when they sit in your lap.
Their breath. Their fitness. Are their eyes clear or yellow from jaundice?
As the bag full of presents gets lighter, the sleigh and reindeer need ballast.
Those really bad children won’t be missed.
The smart ones make toys, and he calls elves.
The rest, he drinks.
Punching Santa
Why do children sit in Santa’s lap and tell him what they want for Christmas?
Because it’s a lot nicer than tripping him up, sitting on his back, and punching him in the kidneys until he gives you what you want.
This doesn’t just apply to Santa Claus and Christmas.
Stop beating the crap out of the other kids in school or you’re going to get expelled. Or put in juvenile detention.
And that counts double for your little brother during dinner.
Why can’t you say “Please pass the potatoes.” like other kids?
And don’t punch the damn potatoes, either.
The Fourth Kind Of Elf
Some elves bake cookies.
Other elves make shoes.
And then a rare few build toys in Santa’s workshop.
Somehow, people forget there’s a fourth job for elves: the military.
I mean, did you ever see Legolas baking cookies, making shoes, or building toys?
Hell no. That dude was killing orcs and other foul monsters with his bow and arrows… Twang! Twang! Twang!
I don’t think he can bake, and I’m sure he doesn’t make his own shoes, but if you asked Santa for “A dead orc with an arrow sticking out of it” I bet Legolas can fill that order.
The Gift That Keeps On Giving
Every year, I get asked the same question.
“What do you want for Christmas?”
Hrm. I have no idea.
I’m rather content with the stuff I’ve got.
Maybe an extra scrub brush for the carpet cleaner when the cat vomits, but beside that, I’m good.
“You don’t give scrub brushes for Christmas,” she says.
She dumped a pile of catalogs in my lap, and leaves more and more catalogs out for me to review.
I look through them, all full of crap I don’t want or need.
Then, I spot something.
A paper shredder.
For all these fucking catalogs.
Perfect.
Figgy
Some people get a bit carried away with Christmas.
I’m not talking about the trees and lights and manger scenes in front lawns.
What I worry about is the carolers.
Some stick to the basics, like Silent Night.
They sing the song, shake the charity tipjar, and move along.
But others, well, they’ve fucking lost it.
One roaming chorus took We Wish You A Merry Christmas over the edge, threatening people with demands for figgy pudding.
Who the fuck keeps figgy pudding around anyway?
Is the wassail boiling yet?
Good. Open the door and I’ll toss it in their faces.
Not So Wise
After they left Bethlehem, the Three Wise Men returned back to their homelands and got chewed out by their clans for giving their wares away to some strange family in a barn.
The myrrh and the frankincense weren’t much in demand at the time, so those guys got off easy with whippings. But the guy with the gold really blew it, and he was sold into slavery for his temporary bout of madness.
Still, he’d tell tales of following the star, giving gold to The Newborn King Of The Jews.
So they cut out his tongue to shut him up.