Ordinarily I love this festive time of year. Twinkling lights hanging from all the trees, never mind that you can’t see their reflection on the wet streets below because of all the bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic.
epa03970663 Christmas lights on Regent Street in London, Britain, 29 November 2013. EPA/ANDY RAIN ** Usable by LA, CT and MoD ONLY **
But that’s expected at Christmas, like holiday shoppers pushing and shoving their way forward, jockeying for position in front of me—the last guy standing in the long line to the counter.
It’s Christmas though, and I expect it.
“ATCHOO!”
I tink I’ve caught a nudder nasty code in my dose.
“Honk!” just a nudder by-product of da, da, ATCHOO! Season of giving.”
“Honk, pfft, sniffle.”
Speaking of which, I’d sure love to find out who gave me this miserable code—SO I COULD GIVE IT RIGHT BACK TO THEM!
All I do know is, I sure hope I get a stocking full of NyQuil this year. You know, the nighttime cold and flu medicine.
However, what didn’t I expect to get this year was a Christmas card from the North Pole.
When my wife and I arrived home from a pleasant evening out at a little Christmas soiree, she went to check the mailbox and came back with a pile of mail that even Santa Claus would find overwhelming.
Sorting through all the bills (that always come just before the holidays) was this card.
“Hey, sweetie, you received a Christmas card from the North Pole! Who do you know at the North Pole?” she asked.
Guess she’s never heard of Mr. Narwhal.
I dropped my Airborne tablet—completely missing the glass of water in the process—and raced for the card.
Santa sent me a card? All must be forgiven! Or, so I thought. I mean, there was that infamous blowtorch incident with his sleigh and all (it was in all the papers), and a few elves got a little scorched here and there.
And then there was that big burnt bag of toys and all. Well, you know, accidents do happen, right?
But hey, I was only thirty-nine at the time! Could happen to anyone, right? Besides, I think there should be an expiration date on that sort of thing, don’t you?
http://www.jinglebellejackson.comAnyway, back to the card.
Anyway, I had hoped that my massive write-in campaign to Santa over the past year (better known as PROTEST 2014) would help the ‘Big Guy’ see the error of his ways and remove me from the list, not to mention dismissing that lawsuit he filed against me (settlement pending), and hopefully granting my Christmas wish for this year.
The wish?
For a million dollars in unmarked bills to be dropped down a chimney of my own choosing on Christmas Eve.
I would have asked for two million, but I felt that my be pushing it a little, and didn’t wanna have him think me greedy.
And this in spite of Mrs. Claus and all those horribly pathetic, itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, tiny minded little elves painting me out to be some kind of extortionist.
I mean, who do those elves think they are anyway? Santa’s legal counsel!
Last year, fatso sent me only a buck. ONE WHOLE DOLLAR! And it was at the bottom of my Christmas stocking too, along with a note stating “Son, you’re still on the naughty list. Love; Santa.”
Love, Santa? He wants me to love him for that?
And then there was the fine print which said, “Remember the blowtorch incident?”
Well, they do say elephants never forget?
But, I was sure this year would be different, so I lunged for the card my wife was holding, practically knocking her onto our corner table—fortunately, her incredible sense of balance helped her find the floor instead—and grabbed for my card.
With envelope now in hand, I eagerly read…
“Greetings from the North POLL!”
I should note here, that my friend, Sarah Ferguson (no, not the Duchess of York), caught this misspelling. Check out her funny response in the comment section below. I’m sure my misspelling of pole was simply because someone spiked my eggnog—which, by the way, I don’t drink.
The card continued…
“You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. But, do you recall … the most famous reindeer of all?”
I looked up and thought, “Where’s the old fart going with this?”
“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, who has a very shiny nose, tells me there’s a guy just like him, also with A BIG RED NOSE. Now all of my North Pole Reindeer, like to laugh and shout his name. And it isn’t Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer, care to play the guessing game?
Hint, hint…his picture in shown on your blog as the author, and he also happens to have a Red Nose too. Maybe, IT EVEN GROW! Lying to the police like that. I hope your insurance rates go up, dummy. Now do you know who my reindeer were singing about? Donkey brain! WELL… DO YOU PUNK?”
My wife (still on the carpet) looked up at me and said “Honey, are you alright? You look white as snow!”
I turned and looked at her, my eyes wide as saucers. The words barely escaped my lips…
“I’m not sure, but I think Santa Claus might actually be Dirty Harry! Or, possibly Clint Eastwood, but in either case, I think I’m still in trouble.
“Honey, what in the world are you talking about?” she asked.
“Well, I suspect Santa and Rudolph are out to get me!”
“Oh… that’s nonsense, honey. Don’t be ridiculous, Santa and Rudolph? They’re not even real!”
“Oh really, you think so, huh? Well, just feast your eyes on this!” and I handed her the card and asked, “What do you have to say now, huh?”
“They take a nice picture?”
I don’t think I’m going to be getting a million dollars this year, or ever! All I can say, is just pray none of you ever make that naughty list of his. You might never make parole!
“ATCHOO!”
“Honey! Can you please bring me a cup of Nyquil. On second thought—BRING THE WHOLE BOTTLE!”
In My Cluttered Attic 