The close relationship, the natural progression, from one thought to the next?
Each year at Christmas we celebrate
the birth of a First Century AD Galilean holy man and prophet, who
preached, according to what we find in the Bible, humility,
forbearance, sweetness and frugality.
We celebrate this with an orgy of retail spending.
We also celebrate this short and
obscure life, for there isn't much hard historical evidence of the
details, by promoting the mythological arrival on your roof of a German
fat man in a red suit, in a sleigh pulled by wild bovines, one of whom
has an incandescent nose.
Doesn't it make sense? It all makes perfect sense to me.
This German fat man squeezes his way
down your chimney, and leaves presents for your kids that you know you
bought and weren't left by the German fat man. But you tell your kid
you didn't buy the gifts. They were left by a German fat man who as he
sailed away into the night yelled "Ho! Ho!"
You tell your kids this story until
about the time they reach the age of 14, when they finally realize on
their own, or are told by friends, it was all a lie. Thus, even from
their earliest memories, you show them you love them by foisting a lie.
And not just a small lie. A WHOPPER!
That's supposedly because you're a giving, generous person.
Interestingly, even when they're
small, your children sure know who to complain to if they don't feel
they got enough, or didn't get what they want. YOU! For some reason,
they don't even bother searching for a fictional German fat man.
I've threatened to boycott Christmas for years.
Here are 10 reasons why:
1. Let's smell the coffee. Okay?
Christmas is about spending, not about Jesus, not even about the
concept of giving. If you doubt me, try spending a third what you
normally spend. That's still giving, isn't it? Your kid will run
sobbing to her room. You'll feel guilty. A bad person. You didn't spend
enough. Don't try to blame it on the German fat man. Try explaining to
your child about the spirit of it, the thought that counts, not the
amount of the merchandise. About Jesus. Yeah right! Your kid will get
up and run sobbing into another room.
2. This ritual requires an expenditure
of at least $700 per year. That's small. If you're a rich airline
pilot, it could be $1,200, maybe $5,000. If you're like a lot of
people, you don't have the money. The cost of everything goes up. Even
the Christmas tree now costs more than I once paid for a used car. You
borrow money for it on credit cards and go deeper into debt, to please
your kid, or whomever.
3. Scrooge got a bad rap. He was a
Republican businessman. If he killed and robbed people to get money,
I'd be less sympathetic. But he made money by being ruthless, and
didn't want to share it. That's just the American way. You know the
story. Scrooge sees the light after being threatened by three ghosts.
At the end, he's throwing money at charities and anyone who will take
it, and he's a good person. Next year, when the charities come back for
more, he's out. He gave it all away. Now, instead of being an asshole,
the charities call him a goddamned fool.
The moral is clear. People evaluate
your character based on how you spend your own money, money you earned
from hard work, and whether or not you give them that money.
4. Most of the merchandise purchased
is made by slaves or low income peons in China, ruled by a ruthless
régime. Thus, the slave laborer sits in his Chinese jail cell putting
together a DVD player that costs his jailer $7.95 to produce. They ship
it and sell it to you for $198.95. With each purchase, you are helping
China to become a superpower that will supplant the United States, and
you are helping American crook corporate executives who are shipping
jobs overseas to take advantage of slaves. What does this, and an
overpriced DVD player, have to do with Jesus?
5. Turn on the TV set. Look at the
expensive cars being glorified. Look at the beautiful, supposedly rich,
glamorous Hollywood actors portraying successful people giving and
getting upscale gifts. It creates envy. You want to be like them.
Happiness is not the inner being. It's how you look, how much you have,
and what you spend. Material possessions.
6. It doesn't take long to figure out
that much of the economic growth of the military industrial colossus
that the US has become depends on this single event. If you save too
much, if you don't go into high-interest debt, the powers-that-be don't
like it. Like the oil companies, they need you as a sucker.
7. Each year the ritual involves
visiting relatives. But not me. My malicious conservative relatives
hate my guts and consider me a mama's boy, a lazy bum, a coward, an
anti-American traitor, a weakling and probably a pervert. I only agree
with about half of this negative assessment.
8. Statistics show Christmas is the
time for suicide and depression psychologically because of the forced
gaiety, decorations, inevitable caloric weight gain, tinsel and lights,
and because again you don't have enough money.
9. Jesus wasn't born on December 25?
We don't even know the exact year of his birth. Who picked the 25th?
Everybody crowds airports at the same time to celebrate the not-the-day
of Jesus' birth.
10. Despite personal responsibility,
Christmas nevertheless encourages binge alcohol consumption, drunk
driving and overeating in an already chronically obese society.
P.S. - Because of #4, China is getting
richer making gifts using slaves, and more Chinese are driving cars
when 10 years ago they were all riding bikes, thereby increasing global
warming through carbon greenhouse emissions, which is melting the polar
ice caps. So ironically, with each gift purchase you make, you're
helping to melt the North Pole, the fictional home of the fictional
German fat man.
I call for an immediate attack on Saudi Arabia to take over their oil and to install an American-backed regime in Riyadh friendlier to the United States. It's been eight whole years, and we haven't attacked a third country yet. We only attack countries weaker and smaller than ourselves. It was Saudi Arabia remember that supplied the hijackers that carried out 9-11
Why do we love Saudi Arabia? We hate Moslems. Because of 9-11, we hate all Muslims, even those poor slobs in Indonesia, right
We could make Saudi Arabia first an exploited colony garrisoned by American troops and ruled by an American viceroy who looks like John Wayne. He could saunter around with a pair of pistols and say to all the turban-heads, get out of my way, Pilgrim!
Eventually, we would annex Saudi Arabia and make it the 51st state in the union.
We would call it, Saudi America.
We would flood the country with right wing duck hunters from Minnesota who still believe in Dick Cheney, and white power skin heads with confederate flags on their trucks from the Deep South. They would take to it because Saudi Arabia, (excuse me), Saudi America, is a sandy, ugly, God-forsaken country just like Texas, home for the rednecks. The new arrivals would establish grease-laden junk fast food takeout shops, tequila growing farms, tattoo parlors, condom dispensers, factories that make specially designed lingerie for transvestite congressmen, motorcycle parts stores, laminated fruit used as sex aids, DVD adult movie rental outlets, and back-yard cottage industries making affordable reproduction World War 2 German helmets for Republican tea-baggers complete with swastikas.
We could build the very first adult-and-selected-minors-only X-rated Disney theme park and call it Stud Mickey on the Dunes (as in Mickey Mouse with a huge phallus riding a dune buggy across the Saudi sands). The center piece of the park would be the largest reality roller coaster in the world, specifically built to eject randomly chosen senselessly singled out certain unsuspecting riders engaged in the act of intercourse at high speed headfirst into a tiled lagoon, the possibility of potential un-rehearsed home movie-style entertainment to be televised for the cruel enjoyment of ignorant and easily impressed visitors, and those who enjoy listening to Sarah Palin.
This could all be funded by raising the price of gasoline.
Think what we could do with that oil money. We could turn Mecca into a glittering casino city to rival Las Vegas or even Branson Missouri with Arabic symbols on the slot machines to help fleece native sucker common-as-dirt potential slaves and hook them hopelessly on gambling, diverting them from their current occupations, sheep herding and wife beating.
A new industry, the sales of genetically-engineered gnats, would be developed, as hotter global warming sand dunes are prefect breeding grounds for the pesky insects. A rapidly multiplying growth bio-organic type of farming, gnats would be exported from Saudi America all over the world as a way to, after introducing them into the mouth, cleaning (by the insects eating away) decaying food between the teeth, eliminating the need for floss. A black market illegal trade could also be set up to infest the homes and cars of ex-wives and disagreeable bosses, the product to be titled, "Revenge with a Buzz." We could hire Glenn Beck as a spokesman.
A special tax will be set up levied on the families of American serial killers back home based on household income to fund the first non-interrupted, elevated freeway running from the coast of Florida to the new state of Saudi America. This will allow the free movement between continents of hordes of Social Security grabbing, leech-like-freebie-sucking salary-less elderly retired loafers, who think the world owes them for the simple act of living, a bunch of non-contributing, seasonal immigrant vagabonds who will flock to a newly-constructed upscale gated condominium development along the Red Sea to be titled, Moses Slept Here, Phase One.
The Saudi royal family will be moved out and given property in the fashionable Hamptons of New York State, and posh flats in London, the only things they ever really wanted in the first place. They can thus be rich and drive Rolls Royces and pretend they are successful Englishmen wearing robes.
The surrounding ocean would be denuded of all its sea life by over-fishing and the All-Sex Porno Channel cable TV station introduced all across the country to take the place of the native religion, which will be abolished. Every citizen who currently practices any form of religion including Islam, Catholic and Mormon, will be required to convert instead to the selling of Mary Kay Cosmetics, a religion all its own.
Solar powered computerized micro chip mechanical camels will be created to run on the world's first water-gravity-flow-fed pneumatic tube monorail system, the water to be shipped by means of a specially constructed overhead pipeline from the Central Valley of California as that state totally falls apart and no longer needs it. Governor Arnold will attempt to avoid presiding over the California debacle and will seek office in Saudi America, but will be stripped of steroids and escorted to the border where he will be told to go visit long-neglected relatives in Austria who highly doubt his even minimal acting ability.
Arnold will find it hard not to put on one of the cottage industry teabag reproduction German helmets.
Since nobody uses it, why do we have the word "ouch," the sound you make when you hurt yourself?
Where did this word come from? There is no doubt, back in the mists of time, when small men with giant reproductive organs walked the earth looking for women and wearing animal skins, they made up the first words by making similar sounds to the thought they wanted to express, or the danger they wanted to communicate.
It was mostly about danger back then. There was little incentive to go to all the trouble to make up a word to say, "Pass me the saber-tooth."
Thus, if you were a caveman and saw a dangerous snake, you told your partner "hiss!" In other words, look out, there's a f..'ckin' snake. Then, if you wanted your partner to hit the f..'ckin snake over the head with a rock, you said, "hiss, smash!" But if your partner missed, and hit your toe with the rock instead, you said "OW!" Not ouch. That came later, when more sophisticated words were added.
Why OW? Why not "GERSH!" Or "REEP!" Or "FLINKO?"
Why did the caveman say "OW" instead of the above? Do we all have to be slaves to the sudden impulse of one caveman? I for one, resent having to use a word first thought up by a filthy, smelly Cro-Magnon with caked, dried excrement staining his backside, and chunks of un-wiped sleep in his eyes and with breath smelling of last week's pterodactyl soufflé.
Nobody much uses either word, OW, or ouch, today anyway. When was the last time you heard someone say ouch? Interestingly, the word ouch has become a designer word for clever modern people who when you suffer embarrassment, tease you by saying to you, "ouch!"
Now, instead of OW, when you smash your toe, you say "Sh.'t!" Or the F word. Hurt has been upgraded to a more vicious connotation, proving that modern man has a lower threshold of pain. He is no longer content to just say OW! Use of the F word seems to indicate a sexual link with pain, which is a fascinating topic all its own and which I will touch on later in a separate piece.
There is little doubt that back in the real old days when they used to as we currently put it, "slay guys," there was much more pain in daily life than today.
In the Middle Ages, your teeth were rotting out of your head and they pulled them with rusty horse shoeing pliers. You screamed OW! You had a gangrene leg so they hacked it off with a dull axe, plus your other arms and legs for safety, and cauterized the wounds with the fire of a branding iron, leaving you a legless, armless, bobbing torso. OW! If you had an ear plugged with wax, they thought it was the devil and tied a chain to your ear and the other end to a horse and had the horse bolt and rip your ear off, without anesthetic. OW!
There was no Tylenol. Life was very painful back when things were rotten.
Because of that cave man who smashed his toe, sound words are more interesting than word words. But if people had not assigned more complex wording, we would have to rely today on strictly sound-based communication. For example, the cave man wants to tell his wife, "you did not cook the musk-ox the way I like it, singed with the hair intact for crunchiness. Go over to that festering pool of excrement and stand on your head in it until further notice."
He wouldn't say it that way. No. Instead, he would say, "yuk, sizzle, pee-yoo, who-whee, gurgle-gurgle!"
Thus, if we were on strictly sound-based wording today, we might be able to get rid of insurance salesmen and politicians. Scientifically then, language is a timeless conflict between what we mean to say, and what we say to mean.
What is golf? You take a metal rod with a head on it, and hit a little white ball towards a hole in the ground.
Golf symbolizes for a lot of pot-bellied, balding middle aged men success. Why? They can traipse around the clubhouse and act the big guy in their expensive golf clothes and say to themselves, I'm a success? You have to work. But I can hang around the golf club.
Golf is the most un-sport of all sports, the reason why pot-bellied bald men with heart murmurs can play it.
You don't have to do anything, except walk short distances, and swing at a little white ball. Supposedly, if you're doing it right, the ball gets closer to the hole with each swing. After you swing, you get back into a toy car powered by a battery and drive to where you hit the ball. Then you get out and do it again. Get back in the toy car, and drive again.
This is a sport?
It involves neither courage nor stamina.
Sometimes, people who are recognized as being the best at swinging at the little ball, are followed around the course by hordes of strangers who lives are so meaningless, they have nothing better to do than follow someone who is hitting a tiny ball closer to a hole in the ground and driving a toy car.
Sometimes television broadcasts it so you can see them hit the ball at a hole. Millions of dollars are awarded to the one who gets the ball in the hole in less tries than the other guy.
He says, oh look at me, I'm getting the ball closer to the hole. Aren't I great? Oh I'm important. I sent the ball right at the hole that time.
Everybody whispers in the crowd, as though something really important is going on. At boxing matches and baseball games they scream. But not golf. A sport that has no noise except the whirring of the toy cars?
Most who play golf are neither famous for it, or particularly good at it, or successful, though they want to pretend they are. After spending very little energy swinging perhaps an average 93 times at a tiny ball and then driving a toy car, they come back to the clubhouse and have a calorie-laden steak and a double scotch on the rocks.
Not only do they fanaticize they're rich in their overpriced golf clothes, made by a slave laborer in China, but they also think of themselves as sportsmen. Golf, with the possible remote exception of bowling, is the only sport you can play if you're an out-of-shape slob.
You see, if you were to climb into a boxing ring and box, everybody would see you're out of shape and laugh at you when you clumsily collapsed into a corner from exhaustion after only the first round. That wouldn't stroke your ego would it?
No. Mainly, golf is to take erratic swings at a tiny white ball, drive a toy car after it, then come back and parade around and act the big guy. Despite the fact that your house, your car, and your boat, are not owned by you, but by a bank from which you borrowed money to acquire those things, and to which you now make payments that you probably can't meet.
Like borrowing, golf is somehow psychologically a way a person can deceive themselves. Look at me. I'm important. I've made it. What "it" is we don't know, but that's beside the point for our purposes.
Millions of gallons of water are expended each year on watering golf courses that produce neither crops nor oxygen-giving trees.
But you can tell yourself, oh look at me, that was a good shot, I'm closer now to the hole than I was before. Oh boy! Let's get in the toy car and drive over there. See? My ball almost rolled onto that really thin grass (the green), where that Hispanic minimum wage illegal immigrant worker mowed it real real close.
Four!
Why do you yell "four?" When you hit the ball at someone's head? Golf would be more interesting and more of a sport if the person whose head you almost took off with your errant shot and then yelled "Four" at, as part of the game, the rules, was then allowed to come over and engage you in bare knuckle fisticuffs.
Beat the crap out of you. The winner gets 20 strokes taken off their score.
You wouldn't come back to the clubhouse to show off with a bloody nose. The overpriced steak at the clubhouse you'd have to put over your eye instead of ingesting it and swelling your already dangerously bulging waistline.
Then fewer people might play the ridiculous game of golf.
Three of the major, tubby, fat-faced-jowly, chubby white boys who serve as right-wing racist talk show hosts on Fox News, and the Fox News blonde she-male, if asked to rank their least favorite people, with the most despised starting at the top, would rank them as follows.
The names used here are the same slang names the tubby, fat-faced-jowly, chubby white boys who serve as right-wing racist talk show hosts on Fox News, and the Fox News blonde she-male, would themselves use once the mike is turned off. Fox stands for Fear Others Xenophobically.
Here's the list. No surprise to some of the rankings.
1. Niggers, coons, jungle bunnies (African Americans). All three Fox newscasters, and the Fox News blond she-male, secretly wish black people were back in fields picking cotton like in the good old days. Also, as a general rule, the greater the number of racist epithets (slurs) assigned to a people, the more they are hated, and the more they can be justifiably proud for being hated by the goons at Fox.
2. The Fox racists also despise those whom they think of as:
3. Spicks (Mexicans, also known as beaners, wet-backs or greasers).
4. Gooks.
5. Chinks.
6. Zips (Koreans).
7. Hajis (Iraqis).
8. Muzzies (Muslims).
9. A-Rabs (also known as rag-heads, sand niggers, or camel jockeys).
10. Editors' Note: Remember, none of the chubby Fox News broadcasters thought enough of their country to serve in the military, not one. They let other young men their age serve while they learned their vile craft safe from harm at the college campus radio station.
11. Wops (Italians, also known as I-ties, garlic eaters or Dagos).
12. Kikes, Hebes (Jews). Jews advanced down a notch from #9 to #12, in other words being slightly less hated in the opinion of Fox News, because they kicked ass on the A-Rabs.
13. Frog Connucks (French Canadians).
14. Frogs (French).
15. Bohunks (Eastern Europeans).
16. Polacks (Polish. Another racist epithet is to go up to a Polack and ask, "How's the bowling team?").
17. Limeys (British). The presence of the Brits so high up the list is due to the Fox News blonde she-male and her opinion that Prince Charles and the Beatles were five English faggots.
18. Japs or Nips (Japanese).
19. Faggots (all persuasions, also called queers or limp-wrists).
20. Socialists (liberals).
21. Papists or mackerel snappers (Catholics).
22. Micks (Irish. Hannity and O'Reilly disagreed with this one).
23. Towel-heads, wogs or Sabu, for Sabu the Elephant Boy (East Indians).
24. Injuns or Redskins (Native Americans).
25. Congo Lisa (the name they secretly assigned Condoleezza Rice even though she is a conservative).
26. Uncle Tom (Michael Steele).
27. Tree huggers (conservationists).
28. Krauts (Germans. Beck and Coulter disagreed with this ranking).
29. Editor's Note: All three major, tubby, fat-faced-jowly, chubby white boys who serve as right-wing racist talk show hosts on Fox News, and the Fox News blonde she-male, strongly and angrily disagreed that they are cracker honkies (white men).
Do you suffer from un-erectile dysfunction? If you are one of millions who don't suffer from it, you don't know what you're missing. It's a very rare condition. To put it in a nutshell, how can I explain it, in a tasteful and dignified way that retains at least a veneer of decorum? Basically, it's a physical situation where if you're a man, you have a constant yearning for sex and a rise in your sexual organ to the point that, you suspect you're a male nymphomaniac.
There are some (excuse the pun) "down" sides to this. But there are also some unexpected (excuse the near-pun) bonuses.
What are the pros and cons?
First of all, let's face the gritty reality that as a society, we're hypocritical. On the one hand, we condemn and despise those who can't perform sexually, we idolize those who can, like James Bond, and we spend millions on drugs such as Viagra so that they can. So why is it that you should be embarrassed if you have a super-heated libido as I do?
It can be inconvenient. I'm standing in the supermarket line and I have an attack and suddenly I have a lump downstairs that's as big as a guava. Now, Mrs. Kelly of the Girl Scout troop for which I'm a volunteer comes up to say hello. You know, the little white haired lady who looks like Mrs. Butterworth on the syrup jar, so saintly that she could be a missionary in Africa.
I have to cross my legs while I talk to her. Have you ever tried to walk with crossed legs through a supermarket check-out line? It also looks odd out in the parking lot on your way to your car. That's a con.
There is a plus though. Repeated bouts of intense desire and the resultant need to suppress them until you get home I believe is the greatest weight loss device in history, more so than dieting or even anorexia. Try it. Nothing removes fat like the burning desire to reproduce.
I'm not normally a religious man, but God intended it that way. Reproduction flips on an opposite switch from storing calories. After all, if you're reproducing, under ideal circumstances, you're giving away, not taking in.
Just last weekend, I had seven major attacks, and I lost 10 pounds without even trying. That's a plus.
Another factor is guilt. That's a con. We're a sick society founded on guilt. When you and I were boys, innocent, un-knowing boys, our mothers would come and find a girlie magazine under our bed. She would be disgusted, horrified. Gee, I don't know Mom. Aren't you a bit of an ignorant, shallow, selfish, hypocritical prude who is also frigid? You're disgusted by the act of sex? After all, you re-produced me. What if it was a magazine with pictures of guys? What are you complaining about?
It doesn't make any sense. Why on earth would a healthy, vibrant 16-year-old boy who has raging hormones with the sexual equipment God gave him, who is discovering for the first time the wonder of sexual pleasure, who is literally bursting with glowing, potent sperm, possibly have a girlie magazine under his bed?
Go figure!
Guilt sucks. Oh, we're getting off the subject. Where was I? Oh yes. I remember.
Why should I feel embarrassed about walking around with a lump in my pants? I should feel pride that I have such a finely-tuned, super-charged, muscle-bound libido that I, like a lion tamer with a whip and a chair, have to (excuse the pun), beat it back into submission.
That's a pro, I think. If it isn't, it should be.
Now, I don't want you hear from any ladies out there that I'm being disgusting, or a pervert. All of you have at one time or another enjoyed this device (not mine but someone's). Let's face the truth. There wouldn't be so many people in the world if it wasn't a popular activity.
That's important to me. I want to be popular. That's another pro.
I did it! I finally did it! Got revenge on Christmas. I found a way. You can do it too.
It was so easy. I just took all the sh.'t back. Returned it all, and got back the money. But don't call me Scrooge, because that wouldn't be fair.
Here's the deal.
I'm one of these brilliant noble guys who have a hard time making a living. I'm not clever (I don't want to be), and I don't scheme and cheat people. I don't trade land, buy and sell it like a real estate shark. I don't do the things that most pot-bellied average simpletons do, get themselves ensconced into some government job where they can be incompetent and still work there because it's the government. Like a leech sucking blood.
I also don't do the corporate scene where you have to suck up to some no-good coward two-bit-punk-in-a-pin-striped-suit manager.
I'm a man. Like Kit Carson. I go my own way.
For this I've paid the price. I can't meet my bills. Fu.'k 'em.
Then along comes Christmas, a yearly ritual that every assho.'e in the country has to observe. It's supposed to be celebrating the birth of Jesus, a Jew who we don't know much about. So what do we do? Buy things made in China by slave laborers.
The holiday celebrating a man who wore only a robe and who died miserably nailed to a cross is celebrated by an expenditure of cash, money that you don't have. How did this holiday get started, who thought it up? Was it the wise men? They brought gifts to the baby Jesus.
If they thought a bribe would get them a cushy place in heaven, they were wrong. The Christian religion doesn't work on bribes (Jesus himself overturned the tables of the money changers in the temple).
Christmas used to be just giving a carved stick to a kid, and that was it. Now, you have to spend a thousand dollars, because our house-of-cards economy depends on it.
You go into debt to play this yearly game.
You string lights on a tree that now costs $100, more than a used car I once bought. You go to a shopping mall just like a million other fools, all burning gas and polluting the air with their cars, jamming in at the same time like lemmings (a furry rodent) mindlessly marching over a cliff.
Then you buy the junk. Sh.'t. Mostly plastic sh.'t, soon to be collecting dust in your house that will soon be foreclosed because you overspent and can't make your payments. I'm not fuc..'in Scrooge. He had money and didn't like people. I don't have money and I like people okay as people go, and I go into debt with this lousy holiday that I've come to hate because every year it sets me back.
If you spend money you don't have you're not Scrooge. You're just a goddammned fool!
Don't you hate those puky Christmas songs you hear every year, the same ones. Turn on the TV. There's an ad where a guy is giving a new Mercedes Benz to his wife, with a big red bow on the top of it. I can't afford a car like that. Did Jesus drive such a car? He rode a donkey.
I threatened to boycott it. Shine the whole thing. A holiday commemorating Jesus that we celebrate in our perverted way by buying stuff, expending cash, and then saying a German fat man in a red suit squeezed down our chimney and left the presents
I DON'T EVEN GET CREDIT (SANTA DOES) FOR THE PRESENTS THAT I BOUGHT THAT ARE NOW GOING TO BANKRUPT ME!
I RESENT IT! I REALLY DO!
Fu.'k Christmas, and Santa, and the reindeer he rode into town.
I threatened to become a Muslim so I could ignore this holiday. No! I came up with something better. It's so diabolical. I love it. I'm in rapture.
I take the sh.'t back. That's it.
We ran out of money and couldn't meet our bills and our checks are bouncing on other bills because Christmas wiped us out. We returned all the stuff we bought and got the money back.
I'm in heaven. I can make it until the end of the year. I put Santa the fictional fat man and those greedy retailers who sponge off me every year.in their places.
Save your tags.
It's simple. We buy the crap. Wrap the gifts. Open the gifts. Make the necessary praise, "ooh-ahh! I love it!" Then the next day, take the stuff back, and get our money back.
We had our fun. It didn't cost us a cent.
There you are. Is Jesus happy? Is Santa happy?
Everybody's happy. Ho ho ho!
I no longer have to sing, "it's the worst time of the year, it's the worst time of the year."
George W. Bush obviously didn't follow the example of Prince Charles of England, who after he lost favor by treating Lady Diana like a whore, won back public favor when he stood unflinchingly before an angry protester who tried to charge the stage on which he stood.
Bush showed what he's made of.
Duck Bush, duck!
This is the closest to combat George ever came, the smirking, gloating, parading, former National Guard boy who skipped meetings of the National Guard.
While Bush's puppet Iraqi ruler stood rock-like, Bush cowered. Run for cover Bush! Hide under the lectern! Crawl on the floor!
That shoe leather is real dangerous.
A disgruntled Arab reporter, evidently upset that Bush killed a million Iraqis and destroyed Iraq over weapons of mass destruction that weren't there, hurled two shoes at Bush. From now on I christen you "George, Two Shoes Bush."
You see George, it's like this. I know you went to Iraq to sell the war and how great it still is, like you'd sell soap. But you threw away a golden chance. You had the opportunity to increase your 28 percent approval rating.
You threw it away. Over shoes.
All you had to do is stand bravely before the shoes like your Iraq puppet ruler did. Better yet, catch the thrown shoe and hurl it back at the bastard like you were a shortstop on the L.A. Dodgers.
But no, you had to duck and cover.
Duck Bush duck! Incoming! Shoes!
Strand up. Face it like a man! What are you afraid of? A sneaker imprint on your pretty face. This does damage to the spin you put out about yourself as the fearless top gun pilot.
If you can't face a thrown shoe, I would not have you walking point on a patrol in Baghdad. You're the Commander in Chief. What do you order yourself? Commander in Chief to the rear!
Or better yet. Duck and hide! You could whisper up at the Iraq leader. Has he gone? Has the guy with the shoe left?
What are you, afraid of some possible blood?Scratch? You send hundreds of solders aged 18 out to die all the time. What's the matter with you?
I suggest you take my CD course "How to React Under Stressful Situations," and its companion offerings, "Courage Made Easy for Dummies," and "You Too Can Appear Brave, Even if You're Not."
The entire CD package is only $69.95 while supplies last. That would be better than ordering my soon-to-be-released Coward's Kit complete with yellow stripe to pin on your back.
Duck Bush! Run! Hide!
No, this is not the way to show the power and majesty of the United States. Maybe you should have come to the "Sell the Iraq War as Great" spin press conference dressed in a flak jacket and helmet. Better yet, they could knock out a wall and you could enter the room in a tank, and speak to the group though a tiny slit in the tank (just your eyes visible).
George! George. Your first taste of battle, and you duck, leaving your Iraqi counterpart to take the heat. George! George!.
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