Stuff and Nonsense

Have a Holly Jolly Song

And then make fun of it...

As some of you may know, I work at Ace, Home of the Helpful Hardware Person. And me. Trust me, my experiences there are the stuff of books. Interestingly enough, I'm in the process of writing one, titled "What Can We Help You Find?"

Don't worry, today's post isn't about that.

Although, would it kill you to buy one of the books I've already written?

No, it's about the radio which plays while we work. It's tuned to an "All-Christmas" station.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love Christmas. The gathering together of friends, the exchanging of gifts, the wondrous colorful displays, the sticking of GI Joe in your sister's EZ Bake Oven*...pretty standard stuff, really.

"It burns! Dear Lord, it burns!
My Kung Fu grip is powerless!"
NOTE: this is a repeat of a picture from my last post. I had to use it again. Copying pictures can get expensive.
SECOND NOTE: Yeah, that's a lie. I don't pay a cent for these things.

No, I wish to complain/comment on all these GD songs, most of which are from my childhood (this has resulted in me changing the lyrics for some of them). Decades later, I'm still singing them.

Still, it's torture, I tell you. I'd rather be stuck in an EZ Bake Oven.

"No, you wouldn't."

So, in no certain order**...

"Deck the Halls"
Comes with two mocking opportunities!

"Don we now, our gay apparel."

Hey, now.

and the part where I change the lyrics..."Deck the Halls With Parts of Molly."

So far, no one has called the cops.

"Jingle Bells"

A childhood favorite, I'll sometimes sing, "Dashing through the snow in a beat-up Chevrolet..."

But, the all-time favorite version has to be, come on, you know...

I figured you did.

"Winter Wonderland"

"...in the meadow we will find a snowman and pretend he is Parson Brown..."

Upon which they starting talking to the...snowman. Imagine the kind of psychedelics those two got ahold of.

How could they tell it was a snowman, you might ask?

Snowballs.

Why was the snowman happy?

He heard the snowblower was coming.

"Do You Hear What I Hear?"

Whenever I hear, "A child, a child, shivering in the cold, we will bring him silver and gold," I shout at the radio, "HEY, HOW ABOUT GETTING THE KID A FRIKKIN' BLANKET! THREE WISE MEN, INDEED!"

"Hippopotamus for Christmas"

Hopefully this kid's parents know that hippos are some of the most dangerous creatures on the planet. Even if they weren't, IMAGINE how much crap those things put out. No thanks.

"You've no idea. Don't let this cartoony appearance fool you."

"I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"

If this isn't a song which should be on Jerry Springer, I don't know what else. Not for nothing, Michael Jackson sang it. And look at what happened to Michael Jackson. Coincidence?

"Then Santa showed her his Yule Log."

"Joy to the World"

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, accompanied by shepherds, angels, donkeys, three wise men***, a couple of camels, mom, stepdad, and a bullfrog. Named Jeremiah.

Thanks, Three Dog Night!

"Hey, doing what we can to keep the Christmas spirit alive."

"Santa Baby"

This "Whorefest" is, by far, a Christmas song that I hate. It has nothing to do with Madonna, I swear****.

Although...

"Baby, It's Cold Outside"

Even though this is as much a Christmas song as "Die Hard" is a Christmas movie, I have to point out the sexist, "rapey" nature of this thing. Plus, it's kind of "ick."

"Come on, man. It's my favorite!"

"O Come All Ye Faithful"

One of my childhood's all-time classics, we were making fun of this song's title, long before we really understood what we were laughing at.

I think you know why.

In fact, since we were convinced the nuns were on to us, they made us sing the Latin version, "Adestes Fideles."

"You got that right, cheeky boyo. There'll be no coming here.
At least with another person.
Oops, I hope you're nae getting my drift."

Thankfully, though, Christmas will soon be over and the music will switch over to Top 40. And non-stop Taylor Swift.

Oh, eff.

*to understand what I'm talking about, I invite you to read the post before this. Don't worry, we'll still be here when you get back.

**mostly because I don't feel like putting them in order. Saturday night TV's coming on, yo.

***I know the Magi didn't show up until a couple weeks later. Don't bother correcting me. Or did you confuse this with a documentary?

****Yes, I know she sang it way before she destroyed her looks. But, she was skank then, she's a lizard skank now.

God Bless Us, Everyone

Not my house.

Not my house, either. But closer.

Christmas was always a big deal at my house.

Starting immediately after Thanksgiving, we began the run up to the most wonderful time of the year, not counting the last day of school.

And started to feel sorry for the Jewish kids.

"Yeah, but we get eight days of Hanukkah while you only get one for Christmas.
And still get two weeks off from school.
So, ya'll can suck it."

As much fun as getting ready for Christmas was, December 25th was actually what we were all waiting for.

As the clock struck nine on Christmas Eve, our parents scooted us off to bed. Warned to stay there all night, we were cautioned not to surprise Santa as he placed gifts under our aluminum Christmas tree. With its uber-classy color wheel.

Now with all the primary colors! Plus green!

OK, we bought into the whole Santa thing. Then again, we believed in the Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy.

And that a nun could fly.

We tossed and turned all evening. To pass the time, we mortified our sister by making fart noises under our armpits.

As midnight approached, we heard the sound of movement downstairs. Instantly calling a halt to the armpit symphony, we strained to hear what was happening.

“Santa’s here!” my brother gasped.

Straining my ears, I heard the muffled sound of rustling paper. Even so, I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. It was only when I heard a sharp bang followed by a string of colorful holiday expressions of goodwill that I knew the magic of Christmas had arrived.

Reassured, I happily closed my eyes.

What seemed like seconds later, I was rudely awakened. “C’mon,” my little brother excitedly cried, “Santa Claus came last night!”

He seemed genuinely surprised. Where had he been all these weeks? Of course Santa Claus came last night! Who’d he expect, Nixon?

"Ho, ho, ho. Is that so hard to believe?"

We bounded downstairs to a dazzling rainbow of presents beneath our garish tin pole. Quickly diving into the pile, we were brought up short by a shrill, “Nobody opens anything until your father and I get there!”

Thus admonished, we nervously perched on the edge of our avocado and gold couch. It seemed an eternity until our parents trudged like zombies into the living room.

Coming out of her narcoleptic daze, Mom gushed, “Wow! What happened? Did Santa come?” (Amazingly, she sounded as shocked as my brother. What was it with these people? Did they all have brain damage?).

Oblivious to her amazement, my father silently nodded.

Photo for entertainment purposes only.
We weren't nearly this in control.
Neither were we black.
We still aren't.

Instantly responding, we dove under the tree in a giddy paroxysm of joy. We were a brood possessed, we were seized with the spirit, we were seagulls descending on a box of French Fries.

After we had torn open our presents, our parents announced that it was time for church. After all, what says Christmas more than sitting uncomfortably on wooden pews and splashing each other in the face with water from petri dishes disguised as holy water fonts?

Despite the fact that AOC makes more appearances at Mensa meetings than the Penwassers at Mass, we were “going, goddammit!” So, after exchanging footie pajamas for swanky “Dad N Lad” ensembles and hideous frocks of a color not found in nature, off we sped in the family Batmobile to church.

Upon arrival-five minutes late-my father ushered us into the very last pew. “That way,” he whispered, “we can beat the traffic.”

The service was tolerable. There were a bunch of mumbled carols, a Christmas sermon, and the obligatory offering for starving Vietnamese orphans. “The ones who aren’t Commies,” Father Karl sternly added. That was about it. Oh, and one of my brothers needed the Heimlich maneuver to get that communion wafer out of his throat.

And hippies. The little Baby Jesus hated hippies.

Before you could say “Dominus Nabisco,” we were knocking down old Slovak ladies to get out the door.

Although I think the one in the middle put a gypsy curse on us.

Once home, we joyfully returned to our toys, although now we wanted to see how creative we could get. For instance, G.I. Joe didn’t fare too well in the Vietcong EZ Bake Oven. We also discovered that, if you removed the rubber suction cups, toy arrows sharpen up real nice.

Now with Kung Fu grip!

Meanwhile, Mom merrily prepared the “Holiday Feast.” The star of the show was, of course, the turkey, which had been mummifying in the oven the past two days. Its aroma filled the house with flavor and its burning grease flooded the kitchen with smoke.

Besides the turkey, dinner featured food you’d only see one other time: Thanksgiving.

For instance, I can't imagine Egg Nog Keggers at the 4th of July picnic.

When presented a choice of turnips, squash, candied yams, deviled eggs, cranberry sauce (always from the can), marzipan, sweet potato souffle, the horrifying blood pudding, mincemeat pie, and the ubiquitous fruitcake, we usually preferred white meat and Hungry Jack mashed potatoes.

To say nothing of marshmallow snowmen.

"You're not the kind of fruitcake he's talking about."

After which, we flung dinner rolls at my sister and the dog, Duke IV.

Sufficiently gorged, we retired to the living room to strap Barbie to “Revolving Color Wheel of Death” while Mom hosed down the dining room. Dad, on the other hand, attired in his festive tee shirt and tighty-whiteys, plopped in front of the television and scratched his back with a fork.

As afternoon dragged toward evening, our eyelids grew heavy. Our early morning rampage had finally caught up with us and, chocolate-fueled frenzy notwithstanding, we were sliding closer to sleep.

Through lidded eyes, I remember my father lurching toward the kitchen. Before I lapsed into a food coma, I heard a faint, “Boy, I sure could use a turkey sandwich with Miracle Whip.”

Followed by a harsh string of colorful holiday expressions of goodwill as he stepped on one of our pointed wooden arrows.

“Hey,” my brother mumbled as he drifted off to sleep, “Santa’s back.”

Let’s see Kwanzaa match those kind of holiday memories.

"Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, one and all.
No joke!"

All This and Eel Pies

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

It’s the first of the year-end celebrations, the others being Christmas, Hanukkah, and New Years. And, by New Years, I mean New Years Eve. January 1st is really only meant for watching college football and making resolutions to not act like a jackass at the next New Years Eve party.

Provided you even get invited back.
NOTE: For entertainment use only. I am not a woman.

You could make the case that Veterans Day kicks it off. But, as evidenced by the dismal ratings of the short-lived It’s the War to End All Wars, Charlie Brown special, the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month just doesn’t make for a merry start of the holiday season.

So, it’s really the 4th Thursday of November which gets the festivities rolling (hey, it’s easier than trying to figure out when the frik Easter is).

Incidentally, some folks have already jumped the gun and started decorating for Christmas.

We call them "crazy people."

I said what I said.

After all, what evokes the holiday spirit more than getting trampled at Wal-Mart by frenzied harpies in bathrobes and curlers on Black Friday?

"Friday of Color."

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate how special Thanksgiving is. A more sober occasion than the frenetic zaniness of the Yuletide season (crazy people notwithstanding), at Thanksgiving we gather just to be together, not because we hope to score the latest electronic gizmo.

Oh, sure, even though there are parades, football games, and enough food to sink the Mayflower, Thanksgiving is thankfully (pardon the pun) devoid of the commercialism of Christmas and the bacchanalian excess of New Year’s Eve.

Of course, if you don't feel like watching football, the Dallas Cowboys are on.

"Gentlemen, may I present...the end zone!"
"What's that?"

Gratefully, we aren’t bombarded by wall-to-wall advertisements to get our loved ones (or our families) the very latest in techno wizardry (“Because, if you REALLY loved Mom, you’d buy her a Kindle Fire!”) in the run-up to Thanksgiving. Plus, there’s no such thing as a “24-Hour Thanksgiving Music Station” or a “Randolph the Hair-Lipped Turkey” special on the Hallmark channel.

But there is the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special,
which I always found a little disturbing.
Can't exactly put my finger on why, though.

THAT'S IT!!!!

No, it’s a calming prelude to the mania which paralyzes every December. It’s a time to appreciate what we’ve been given.

As the day draws nearer, I think back to that very first day of thanks held almost four hundred years ago...

The brightly colored leaves swirling madly amongst the trees, a chill autumn wind blowing briskly over freshly-harvested fields, and the forest animals bustling crazily about in preparation for winter.

And nobody fighting over the remote.

So it was in 1621 that Governor Bradford of Plymouth Colony thought it was high time to celebrate a day of thanksgiving.

Frantically scurrying to find a suitable venue at which to hold their celebration, the Pilgrim Fathers were disappointed to learn they were too late; all the good days in October and early November had been reserved months ago for the Pequot/Schwartz wedding reception, the Jamestown “We Were First” Commemoration, and the last of the Mohican family reunions.

Thankfully, it didn't get out of hand like in 1620
after someone invited the white guy.

Luckily, a spot opened up the last Thursday of November when “Mohawks On Ice!” was forced to close after some Hurons packed their loincloths with Icy Hot. So, the Native Europeans invited their friends, the Native Americans, to a grand feast at the local Elks Lodge picnic pavilion.

Featuring real elk

A deeply devout people, the Pilgrims wished to thank the “Godless heathen savages” for all their help getting the colony on its feet. After all, the tribe was essential to gaining a foothold in the New World, long before the Trail of Tears, Wounded Knee, and all-you-can-eat casino buffets.

Imagine what would have happened had Squanto not taught the Pilgrims to plant dead fish with their corn (“Behold, I bring you the gift of maize! As long as you don’t mind the smell of dead fish.”).

Prior to that, they just stuck them in their trousers.

Plus, the tribe brought the eel pies.

"Seriously, Runs With Scissors, you couldn't have brought something normal?
Like an apple cobbler?"

Many customs today hearken back to this coming together: the feast, the fellowship, the two-hand touch lacrosse game after supper, and the men falling asleep in front of the fire with their hands down their breeches while the women cleaned up all laid the foundation of our nation.

NOTE: By our nation, I mean the United States. Canada, you have your own Thanksgiving in October. England, you coulda had a piece of this, but noooooooooo.

Happily, it was the giving of thanks which has endured through peace, war, and disco. No doubt Governor Bradford himself began a tradition which survives to this day: putting relatives on the spot to state that for which they were thankful.

In homes across the nation, this scene will be played out anew during halftime. In the true spirit of the holiday, millions of family members will likewise be grilled.

"I'm thankful for Matt Gaetz."
"Booooooooooooooo!!!!!!!"
"And Trump."
"Get out."

This year, though, in addition to joyful thanks for family, friends, and the feelings of warmth which come from both, one will resonate above all:

That Great-Aunt Mildred was able to buy the last bundt cake from that guy in the back of his van at the Stop N Shop.

Because the alternative was the Eel Pies.

And I don’t care how much Cool Whip you put on them, they’re still eels.

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY, EVERYONE!

A Little Bit of Learning

The following is just what I remember from being a nerd who read a lot when he was a teenager because he was too shy to date girls. Little did this bashful teenager know that he would go on to marry three women who shared outrageously low standards in men.

Which always seemed odd to me
as I considered myself a bit of a hottie.

Steven Grover Cleveland was born on March 18, 1837 in the town of Caldwell, New Jersey, near the New Jersey Turnpike. His parents preferred to call him "Grover," because they could not agree on whether to spell his first name "Stephen" or "Steven."

NOTE: This may not be true.

Of course, they may have thought differently
had they been able to see into the future.

NOTE: This, too, is wild conjecture.

After serving a term as President of the 1855 senior class at Caldwell High School (home of the unfortunately named 'Fighting Rebels'), young Grover developed a taste for politics.

NOTE: Yeah, definitely not true. Why do you keep bothering?

"Unfortunate because of the coming Civil War."
"Ohhhhhhhhh, Wanna go cow-tipping?"

Grover went on to become Mayor of Buffalo.

NOTE: Although true (surprise!), I don't remember how he went from New Jersey to New York.

Later, he became Governor of New York.

NOTE: Also true. I'm on a roll!

Finally, he secured the 1884 nomination of the Democratic Party for President and went on to defeat James Blaine. By doing so, he became the first Democrat to win the presidency since James Buchanan.

"I apparently set the standard for 'suck.'
But, hey, I'm dead. So up yours."

Unfortunately (well, for him. I don't care), Cleveland, despite winning the popular vote, lost the electoral vote and the presidency to Benjamin Harrison in 1888.

"Hmm...won the popular vote but lost the electoral vote.
That sounds familiar."

However, since Harrison achieved a Buchanan level of suck, Cleveland won the presidency back in 1892.

"Naw, it was the beard. People hated the beard."

Cleveland was noted for his views on self-reliance, integrity, commitment to classic liberalism, and fondness for the Daily Jumble in the Washington Post.

NOTE: Okay, that last bit probably isn't true. I seriously can't help myself.

He was an anti-imperialist who was against the annexation of Hawaii because he was allergic to pineapples.

"Plus, I bet he would've hated tiny bubbles. In da wine."

He was a strong supporter of the gold standard, was against corruption, and gave his name to an Ohio city on Lake Erie.

NOTE: Yeah, that definitely isn't true.

However, the Panic of 1893 plunged the United States into a severe depression. Whether rightly or wrongly (I can't remember), American voters determined that Democrats should never hold the reins of power again and gave the presidency of 1896 to the Republican, William McKinley.

Thinking "Screw it," Cleveland left Washington.

NOTE: Actually, his health was deteriorating during his presidency. Fighting cancer, he probably knew he was in no shape to run for office again (he actually could have-restrictions to a president serving more than two terms were many decades away).

Grover Cleveland died of a heart attack in Princeton, New Jersey (a-ha! Back to Jersey) in 1908.