Happy Holidays from the Abyss
Rare first edition misprint containing the word “Christmas.” Mint in package. Because who would open that shit?
I recently updated by bio to include “singer” and “songwriter.” My dishonesty is your pain. This is where you pay for tuning in.
Behold, the newest member of the Abyss family. A humble little ditty called “My Christmas Song.” Be advised: You should not listen to this.
Fun fact: I was channeling Burl Ives when I laid down the vocal tracks.
Now please enjoy this, my gift to you. It’s the gift of time in the form of one minute of your life you’ll never get back.
Happy holidays!
How To Get Away With Turder
At family gatherings we sort of take turns doing the cooking. In a nutshell, this basically means my wife does most of everything. When it comes to the kitchen she’s all about the get ‘er done.
I’m already thinking ahead to next Christmas and that I’ll likely make a dish. Perhaps something that I can’t pronounce like bolognese. Meat is definitely a requirement.
What happens when you try to come up with a menu to appease seven human beings, each with differing dietary restrictions, penchants, picadillos, likes, dislikes, preferences, predilections, disinclinations, propensities, and predispositions?
Answer: Exponential permutations.
Good news. It looks like we’ll only need 128 different dishes to satisfy everyone.
Happy Holo-Days
Sadly, Christmas technology just isn’t there yet.
We’re still celebrating in the old old-fashioned way. The wheel. Analog travel. And at what cost? Jet lag. Transportation risks. Fights over sounds and smells. Great expense.
In the far future we’ll step into the transporter room, say “energize,” and all meet instantly at uncle Joe’s place in the Bavarian alps.
Assuming most of us won’t be around for the 23rd century, what the hell are we supposed to do in the meantime?
My idea for a short-term interim solution is the hologram Christmas. Imagine it. You finish the last season of your favorite show on Netflix, have a seat in the imagine chamber and voila, you’re magically in the living room sitting around the hearth with the rest of the fam.
Fa la la la la la la!
No mess. No fuss. No road rage. No dodging other drivers brandishing weapons. No worries about snow in the pass. It’s just a good as being there. Better, even.
The technology is almost there. We just need some holo imagers, holo emitters, contact lenses embedded with Google Glass, and sufficient bandwidth. I’ll bet clever programmers can even come up with realistic holo versions of our current level of tablet and phone technology, so we can all lose our faces in devices just like we already do. That’s authenticity.
Happy holo-days to you and yours and everyone you’re willing to interface with.
A Tom B. Taker Christmas
There it was. In the mailbox. A legitimate Christmas miracle. It was as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes. Instead of darkness I beheld a world of twinkly light.
It was beautiful! I felt alive. I loved everything I could see. I sprinted out into the street and hugged the garbage man. He was beautiful. He looked really surprised. Maybe I should have worn pants but there was no time for that.
In my hands I held a Christmas card. It was even addressed to me. To me! Someone had sent me a Christmas card. A bona fide recipient of the Ribbon of Participation. I was finally somebody.
“God bless us, every one!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. I’d never felt a stronger sense of belonging.
Yes, it was time for a let down.
Christmas Down Your Throat
A well-motivated team player.
Be careful. The War on Christmas is about to flank your rear. Or something like that. It’s classic military stratergy. Don’t fire until you see the whites of their snow.
Today we put my life on hold (such a delicious phrase) and take the occasional look at my wife’s place of employment. Always good times. This is the same place that, in Christmas past, made employees roll dice to get their seating assignments at the company Christmas party. That’s right, the fucking Christmas party. They turned what was supposed to be a festive holiday gathering that recognized contributions of employees into a damnable H.R. exercise. Buffoons!
MEMORANDUM
To: All Employees
From: The Management
Subject: Christmas PolicyChrissy will be coming around today with jingle bells on to distribute decorations. You are required to create a festive Christmas display at your workstation. Refusal would be unwise and will set you apart from the group.
H.R. has assigned several employees who will be allocated more than half the day each to work on this and other vital Christmas-related projects that will ensure the financial success of our company for another year.
Reminder: Office supplies remain secured under lock and key (use requisition form 13-Baker if you need paper) and there are no bonuses this year. Remember, you are lucky you didn’t get laid off.
Our observance of the Christmas season begins at 9pm on Thanksgiving (just like Black Friday). We celebrate the true spirit and meaning of Christmas: Using the holiday to put the maximum milk on sales.
Signed,
Your Team Motivation Team
Leave it to the Christmas season to bring out the best in folks!
Front Lines of Christmas
It’s that time of year again. Tis the season to lace up your boots, grab your weapon of choice and go hunt down people who don’t share the same opinions as you.
Ho, ho, ho, motherfucker!
I feel more jolly already.
Great Moments in Employment History: Christmas Cheer!
This is another piece in our ongoing series, Great Moments in Employment History. These are true stories from your guru’s personal resume. We hope you enjoy.
It was Christmastime not quite 10 years ago. I had left the big city and the rat race for the quiet life in Small Town, USA. On Sept. 11, 2001, I accepted my first job offer in my new digs. It was the inauspicious beginning to the final chapter of my so-called life or what I like to call “The Decade of Despair,” a fitting exclamation point on a moderately successful career. (Yes, I used to be somebody.)
My new position was appropriate to my new home town. To put it inelegantly, my actual job title was as mythical as a unicorn farting out rainbows. My job was “whore.” (Which I define as doing what you hate for money.)
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