Decorating for Christmas

I fully understand that Christmas is almost two months away.  And while the malls have had their trees up since Columbus Day, most normal people haven’t started putting up their Christmas decorations yet.

But I am thinking about it.

Putting up Christmas decorations–especially lights–is one of my least favorite tasks.  You know the whole story–one light goes out . . . they all go out!

So as I was contemplating taking down the Halloween decorations, since that holiday has actually passed, I came up with a brilliant idea.  (Keep in mind that when one gets an idea, a light bulb comes on over their head.  But when one idea goes out . . . they all go out!)

Why not re-use my Halloween decorations for Christmas?

It’s brilliant.  They are already up.  Not only do I save time not taking them down, but I don’t have to spend a lot of time putting up new decorations.

Here is my Halloween tabloid . . . be prepared to be afraid.

OK.  The whole thing was created back when my kids were young enough to care about Halloween and enjoyed listening to daddy curse helping daddy in the woodshop.

So here is my plan for Christmas . . . be prepared to deck the halls!

It’s perfect!  Now I know what you are thinking . . . but weren’t there three ghosts in the Christmas Carol?  The Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Presents, and the Ghost of Christmas Bills Yet to be Paid.  So I only have two ghosts, but now the pumpkin has a Santa Clause bag.

My family is less than enthusiastic about my creation.

Maybe if I put a bright ribbon on the pumpkin.

Yeah, that’ll do it!

HO HO HO!

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I Still Wuv You!

I’m not really sure I understand the concept of Valentine’s Day.  Maybe the problem is that I just don’t understand women.  I don’t, but there’s not enough blog space to get into that.

Apparently, some dude, maybe Rudy Valentino, became known for making women extremely happy one day out of the year, namely, February 14.  We don’t know exactly how this happened, but like any great myth, what probably started as something simple, like accidentally telling his wife that he loved her, blossomed into some folklore tradition, whereupon men must somehow transmutate into romantic storybook lovers satisfying their woman’s every fantasy and desire for one day.  Then, Hallmark got a hold of it and . . .well, you know the rest.  So now it is one of the great burden’s of modern man (amongst others are mall shopping, being sensitive, scented inserts in magazines, Home Interiors, and La Maz.)

But this year, my wife and I decided to be practical.  With the bad economy, lower medicare reimbursement, my daughter starting college and a second teenager getting a driver’s license, we decided not to exchange gifts.  No.  Really.  After all, flowers just die, we don’t need the extra calories in chocolate although that has nothing to do with our current weight status, and my wife actually doesn’t care much for jewelry–she doesn’t usually wear any.

But then I came across this really neat Penn State vase of blue and white flowers, so I thought I would surprise her anyway.  After all, we are Penn State fans although truth be told, the gift was mostly for me.

Alas, when I got on-line last Friday, thinking I still had plenty of time until Tuesday, I discovered that the earliest delivery date was February 21st.  Surprise!  (Jazz hands.)

So then I heard on the radio that Martin’s (our local supermarket) had chocolate-covered strawberries for Valentine’s Day.  I wanted to pick up a card for her anyway, so off I went.  I generally loathe supermarkets, and today was no exception.  After wandering the aisles aimlessly searching for chocolate-covered strawberries, I finally stopped and asked a guy selling flowers.  Yes, ladies, I was soooo desperate I stopped for directions!

He said:  Um, I think they have strawberries in produce, and there’s chocolate in the candy aisle.

As I sit here typing this now, I even wonder if he worked there.

Seriously?  Do I look like Betty Crocker?  Can you picture me microwaving Hershey Bars and trying to smear the mess on some strawberries?  Okay, maybe you can.   But would you eat them?  I didn’t know there was going to be some assembly required.  Turns out, after inquiring at the bakery, that the store does NOT have chocolate-covered strawberries this year.  Must have been a frost or a chocolate fungus or something catastrophic like that.  I either heard the advertisement wrong, or well, I must have heard the advertisement wrong.  Maybe it was Wal-Mart.  And I am not going there!

I did get her a card.  And I fully intended to buy her some strawberries.  And flowers.  It’s the thought that counts, right?

Yeah.  That’s right up there with those myths like size doesn’t matter and money can’t buy you happiness.

So in the end, as agreed, I gave her nothing for Valentine’s Day.

I wonder if she’ll wear it to bed tonight.

Naw.  She’d probably rather have the strawberries.

But I still wuv her.

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Gunning For Phil

Where were you when you first heard the news of the assassination?  Sipping coffee at work, or curled up on the sofa splitting time between The Ladies’ Home Journal and The View on the TV?  Or, were you in your car, hearing the ghastly report after your favorite song was interrupted on the Classic Rock station.

You haven’t heard about this heinous crime?  You heard it (or rather read it) here first?!

Well, you just know it had to happen sooner or later.  The victim never had a chance.

Bill Murray reports in "Groundhog Day"

It was a cold, blustery day in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, when our hero rose from his bed to cast his annual prediction (“spring will come, sooner or later.”)  Little did he know the fate that awaited his beady little varmint eyes.

After all, he lived in a state with one of the highest ratios of hunters to residents.  NRA members outnumber Mensa members nearly six to one.  (It’s probably much higher than that, but a non-Mensa hunter generated the statistics.)  Phil had made a few enemies over the years, predicting six more weeks of cold weather instead of an early thaw.  This all added up to several million armed, mentally challenged suspects with a motive.  Poor, scurvy little rat.

Authorities now believe that Phil was actually struck down with two separate gunshots.  Instant replays of the massacre distinctly show his little fur-ball head being thrown in two different directions.  Over and back.  Over and back.  Over and back.  The replay is currently being shown on CNN continuously.  Over and back.

Two shots.  Definitely two assassins.

Dead rodents see no shadows.

Ballistic experts (not the weather experts that went ballistic when their best source of meteorological information went down in a pool of blood and shredded silk top hat) have determined that one of the bullets came from a snowy knoll, just south of Gobbler’s Knob.  This was probably the fatal wound.

A second rifle was allegedly fired from the second floor of the adult bookstore across the street.  L. Harvey Osmond was captured fleeing the scene.  Actually, he stopped to check out the new selection of sex toys, and was caught in the act.  Investigators have sealed the crime scene and are working long hours into the night examining evidence at the store.

Osmond’s .22 rifle has been confiscated, and he is currently out on bail.  Ironically, it turns out that he has a valid hunting license and ground hogs are currently in season.  He has been charged with firing a rifle in a public place and his license to kill has been suspended.  (He will retain his muzzle-loader, bow and arrow, and slingshot licenses.)  Members of the Inner Circle have filed charges against Osmond claiming that although Phil was just a rodent-in-season, he was still “one of the guys” and deserved better than that.  They are demanding compensation for pain and suffering, not to exceed fifty million dollars.  Several Inner Circle members have also submitted cleaning bills for the blood spattered on their tuxedos, and the cost of replacing Phil has been estimated at about twenty dollars.

In a quirky twist of fate, Osmond was run-down and killed outside the courthouse by an unknown taxi driver.  Punxsutawney only has one taxi, so authorities are searching tonight for one Jack Diamond, the only taxi driver in the greater downtown area.

Anyone who has information regarding the mysterious assassin on the snowy knoll will be hunted down and meet their maker in a most painful manner.

And in good news, the Third Church of the Most Virgin Lady has announced that the potluck supper for this Saturday will be held after all.  A “meaty” stew has been donated for the cause.

HAPPY GROUNDHOG DAY!

Editor’s Note:  No groundhogs, taxi drivers or adult stores were injured in the writing of this fiction.  This tale has been reprinted from my archives and was originally written by me in 2003.

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