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.
The Great Vain Snobbery: Area Effects
Our scientists have identified three distinct phases of Christmas: Before, During and After.
We all know about The Before. This is the land of advent calendars, interminable waiting, day-based countdowns and dropping hints. Not much else of interest here.
The During, of course, is sublime. This is what it’s all about. Ripping open presents and experiencing that fleeting moment of glee. This phase usually lasts less than 20 minutes.
So, what’s left? Just The After. This is where boredom sets in. Shiny objects have a luster half-life akin to that of beryllium-8 aka 81.9 seconds. This is also the domain of “only 364 days until next Christmas” and “you’re already late on buying Valentine’s Day candy.”
There is, however, one saving grace of The After. I’m talking about, of course, snubbery, snobbery and bragissimo. Let’s compare our gifts!
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My Olympic Movement
Image Source: Poop The World Blog
Always eager in my quest to be a furry little lemming, I’ve decided to microblog the Olympics. I have my microbeer in hand. I am microready! (That sounds suspiciously like popcorn. Oh well, such is my fate.) Grab your butter flavoring. It’s go time.
This is my Olympic movement. Or, as I sometimes like to call it, a Movement for the Common Man.
I’m sure most of my reader have evacuated by now. Looks like it’s just gonna be you and me.
So, what is/are the Olympics? Perhaps the simplest definition (and the one found in the Demotivational Dictionary) is: an average throng observing and celebrating the spectacle of their own outliers.
Wikipedia says, “In statistics, an outlier is an observation that is numerically distant from the rest of the data. Grubbs defined an outlier as: An outlying observation, or outlier, is one that appears to deviate markedly from other members of the sample in which it occurs.”
In other words, the Olympics are the sporting version of the universe telling you, “On the bell curve you’re the dingle dangle that hangs down on the bottom. The cling clang thingie that gives the bell it’s special sound.”
Yes, without the average, the outliers would have nothing to outlie from to set themselves apart. Think about it. That’s perhaps the deepest thing I’ve ever said. It’s an outlier of thought.
In other other words, the Olympics are all about watching the select few who have won something known as the DNA Lotto.
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The Nightmare Before October
I was taking my wife to dinner last night on Friday, September 30th, when – whooop! I had to stop the car and drive around the block. Yep, there it was. Spongebob Squarepants taking a dump on a pumpkin in a neighbor’s yard. Holy sheep shit and Merry Christmas!
Sorry for the low quality of this image. I only had my iPod and it doesn't have zoom. I was too filled with fright to get any closer.
So yeah. There it is. Christmas retail displays were out before Labor Day and the Halloween decorations went up while it was still October. Call me a fuddy duddy. Call me a stick in the mud. (That’s my costume this year.) Say I’m too old-fashioned and traditional. Well, phooey. I don’t like it.
Nothing says holiday spirit like a plastic piece of crap made in China that you purchased at the local WalMart. Now that’s festive!
A few houses down the block we spotted another one.
Sure he was already dead, but we hung 'em high anyway. And we forced his orange cousin to watch!
Yes, these are my neighbors. These are the “We Don’t Pick Up Beer Bottles In The Street” kind of people. They may not care about my car’s tires, but at least I can count on them when the chips are down, when it is time to dumb down the neighborhood.
Oh, the sound of rolling dice to me is music in the air, / ’cause I’m a gambling Boogie Man, although I don’t play fair. / It’s much more fun, I must confess, with lives on the line. / Not mine, of course, but yours, old boy, / now, that’ll be just fine.
Thanks for the early reminder, people. Now I know what I must do. Kidnap Mr. Sandy Claws!
Shouts from the Abyss 
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