In Winter, the snow gets as deep as your waist, and it stays deep for months.
We fix kettles of soup and stew, then store them in the deep snow.
Every week, we dig up another kettle to eat from.
Long red poles with flags mark the places we’ve buried kettles, but sometimes the poles and flags get blown away, or taken by naughty and stupid children.
So, we try to remember where the kettles are buried, sometimes finding them, sometimes not.
When the Spring Thaw comes, the remaining kettles are revealed, and we hold a huge feast celebrating renewal.
Tag: society
Axl the Asshole
When did women start throwing panties on stage?
Some say it started with Tom Jones and his Vegas concerts.
Others say it was Wayne Newton, because women would mistake him for Tom Jones.
And still others say it started with Elvis, and panties that ended up on Tom Jones’ or Wayne Newton’s stages were there only because of the unusual updrafts and air currents on The Strip.
But the truth is, it started with Axl Rose.
Not because women were totally in love with him or were enthralled by his music.
No, it’s because he’s such a whiny rockstar pussy.
Letters
Professor Troy crawled into the cave and looked around the debris.
Tattered bits and pieces, a few bones.
And a rusty oil lamp.
He looked closely at it.
Arabic letters… he translated… “RUB THIS.”
Lamps? Genies granting wishes?
He chuckled. What would he wish for?
More funding… a time machine to see the past as it was…
What was the last thing he wished for?
Oh. Right. He’d said: “I wish other archaeologists would treat specimens properly.”
So, he made a notation where he found it, snapped a few photos, carefully wrapped it in a plastic bag, and tagged it.
Never
Remember that game
Back in High School
Senior year.
The last of the season
Or, was it the state finals?
The state finals,
So hot, the grass drank in the water
From the clack clack clacking sprinklers
Like the town drunk.
Two outs, bottom of the ninth
And you hit one over the fence so far,
I swear, it’s still going.
Rounding the bases,
Grinning wide as the sky,
And you fell to the ground
Threw down your glove
And… and…
Wait. You weren’t the batter
It was you on the mound
Blowing the save.
You never pitched again.
Never.
Ho Ho Hock Up A Lung
So, you got sick over the holidays?
Color me shocked. I’m not surprised.
I told you to boil and sterilize any and all Santas before sitting in their laps, but NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! you just had to tell Santa what you wanted right there and then without taking precautions… gah, you fool!
Wouldn’t even wear a big plastic trashbag or put down tissue-paper.
Sure enough, you catch the Santacrud.
It’s the third-leading disease of the holidays, right after drowning in wassail and choking on sugarplums! We must raise awareness! We-
We’re under mistletoe?
Go get a step ladder. I’ll take it down.
Last Night On The Roof
Tonight, a cold December’s night on a New Jersey rooftop, looking out over the Hudson… boats waiting for the fireworks, to ring out the old year and bring in the new.
We’re not in the Square this year. Vinnie and Bobby said it was a pain in the ass getting into the city and pushing my wheelchair around the crowds.
So, blind stinking drunk, they hauled me up six flights of stairs.
I check my watch.
3… 2… 1… happy new year!
Wake up, guys. Wake up.
Happy new year.
They’re passed out. Snoring.
Shivering, cursing, I yell for help.
The Christmas Miracle
Something strange and wonderful is happening during the holidays.
People are reporting that gifts and important expensive purchases they’ve put on lay-a-way at Q-Mart have been paid off by total strangers.
“It’s a Christmas Miracle!” they say, hugging each other as they strap the baby crib to the roof, or stuff the trunk with shoes, jeans or other crap poor people give each other instead of real gifts.
That’s when the store chain started getting complaints. It turned out that their contractors in India had transposed a few digits, and it was a bunch of billing errors, not good Samaritans.
Nativity
Every December, we drag the Nativity scene out from the basement and assemble it in the front yard.
Problem is, there’s always something missing from it, like Joseph or a camel.
It’s not worth it to buy a new Nativity scene, only being used once a year, so we scrounge for replacements.
Using Grampa Eldon’s old lawn jockey as a replacement Wise Man kinda pissed off the Clevelands next door, although in my defense I did wrap it in Little Janey’s bathrobe and try to paint the face white with Liquid Paper.
Next year, we’ll just make snowmen, okay kids?
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.
The Icy Path
It’s cold and icy out, and I slipped on the sidewalk and fell.
Someone helped me back up, but backed away when he looked at my face.
“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong with my face?”
I felt it, there wasn’t any pain… I didn’t see any blood on my hands.
“Where’s the nearest bathroom?” I asked, but nobody answered. They just backed away, frightened by me.
I growled in frustration, and that’s when I heard it.
The animal.
The beast.
The demon.
The sidewalks had cleared, and a priest was making his way towards me, cross held high.
I ran.