The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Hello and happy 2022! I say this even though we're well into February. It seems like wishing you Happy New Year at this point is like congratulating you on going Clear when really you've been an Operating Thetan for months! *

* Made this mistake while standing next to Tom Cruise at a urinal in 1988.

Right now, we're closing in on both Super Bowl Sunday and Valentine's Day. Blech, it gives me a tummy tornado just to say them both in the same sentence. This year they're perversely falling on back-to-back days, so all those football fans withdrawing hard from the end of another season will now have 24 hours to get their shit together and turn into Mickey Rourke by Monday.

The Super Bowl makes me feel simultaneously hungry and queasy. It's an event that lasts a long time, and there's typically a massive spread from the get-go. People bring enough homemade peach cobbler and Costco Hogs in a Lovesack for 90 people, and, yes, go ahead and open that third box of Chicken in a Biskit on your way to the pulled pork station. All day long, it's:

a spoonful of this
and a forkful of those
and a plateful of pie covered with Oreos.

By the end of the third quarter, I've consumed enough sodium and nitrogen to constitute a live explosive, should I merely opt to eat a smidge of lawn fertilizer. Oh, and while we're on the subject, the other night I was watching the Olympics and two commercials came on. The first was for a colitis medication, followed by an ad for Chipotle. I found this a curious juxtaposition, and if anything, shouldn't the Chipotle spot have been first, based on nature's laws? 

Well, enough of the scatological bullshit. Let's talk about Valentine's Day, an event I'll call VD for simplicity's sake. I don't know about you, but it's one of those holidays that hasn't ever gone very well. I've never been much of a romantic, nothing even approaching such legendary standard bearers as Patrick Swayze in Ghost or the guy with the perm who played Luke in General Hospital. 

During my dating years, VD always caused discomfort, like an itch that was impossible to scratch. I found myself constantly guessing, wondering if I was doing enough or maybe going embarrassingly over the top, seemingly "too committed" to a relationship. And by the time this happened, VD and self-esteem had become nothing more than two shiv-waving cell mates. Ultimately I found a partner who lovingly shares my intolerance and scorn for this holiday. We may disagree on the allure of Wordle, but thank the Lord that we're no Kellyanne and George Conway when it comes to this. 

But please understand, this is my own personal hang-up. Just because I'd rather little spoon with Marjorie Taylor Greene than plan a VD surprise for someone, doesn't mean you're not entitled to your own mental scrapbook of wonderful holiday memories, both mental and physical. Knock yourself out.

Because I'd rather knock myself out than do Valentine's Day.

How Well Do You Know Your Holiday Specials: A Quiz

Happy holidays! Although Yule season commercials have been on TV since a couple of days before Halloween (October 28, for Walmart—made a note of it), it hadn’t really felt a lot like Christmas until Sunday, when two things happened:

1. We put up our Christmas tree and all the trimmings around the house, and good news: this time, I didn’t sweat enough getting the tree into the stand to have to change my shirt.

2. The promo for Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer aired on CBS. It’s on tonight (Tuesday) at 8.

A rush of Christmas emotion overtook me as I watched those little, jerky characters marching around. I knew then and there that Noel was officially on. 

But good Lord, Bumble the abominable snow monster, as low-tech as he is, still scares the gizzard up my gullet. As a kid, I always found it convenient to grab a HoHo and linger in the kitchen until he was finally subdued through unbridled tooth extraction.

In my opinion, Rudolph, produced in 1964 with its innovative stop-motion animation, and Chuck Jones’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas, combining the genius of Warner Brothers and Dr. Seuss, are the Ali and Frazier of holiday TV specials.

But there are so many others. That’s why today, as we countdown to Rudolph’s 52nd network-television take-off, I’ve scrawled out little a quiz to see how well you know your boobtube Festivus fare. Best of luck in choosing the correct answer, because this one's no cakewalk.

Who claimed, “I want to be a dentist.”

a) Jeb Bush after looking at his latest poll numbers.

b) A four-year-old me, just before they put me under to get my tonsils out.

c) Hermey, the meek elf in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. That is, until he went all medieval on Bumble with those pliers.

d) All of the above.

Answer: b—Bush would never put his hands in people's mouths, and I wanted to play for the Packers.

Who said, “All I have in my pockets are a short-circuited wand and a few last morsels of magic feed corn that make reindeer fly”?

a) Greg Brady, when Carol finds smokes in his letterman’s jacket.

b) The Winter Warlock in Santa Claus is Coming to Town, as Mrs. Claus desperately attempts to spring him from the North Pole supermax.

c) Beaver Cleaver, after a tough Saturday frog hunting.

d) Ben Carson, maintaining that Jesus listed these among his carpentry tools.

Answer: b— Greg  also had weed in there, The Beav never came home without at least a few polliwogs, and JC didn’t need that shit to do a nice mudroom remodel.

Who wondered, “What if Christmas doesn't come from a store?”?

a) Jeff Bezos.

b) The Grinch, just before his heart grew three sizes.

c) Donald Trump (“F&ck no! I told you, not if that shit’s made in China!").

d) All of the above.

Answer: d

Who said, “I’m cuuuuuute!”?

a) Me, yelling out the window when I cruise Alki Beach.

b) Rudolph, when Clarice’s words made him spring briefly into the air for the first time. As we know, those things can happen to a young reindeer. Perfectly normal.

c) Most dogs who’ve just eaten a shoe.

d) All of the above.

Answer: b and c—I don’t need to shout it out, right?

I hope you’ve fared well on the Christmas special quiz; I know it wasn’t easy. Sorry for not including some of the other great shows, like A Charlie Brown Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, A Christmas Story and so many more. Enjoy the season and watch a few of the old favorites!

It's a cold morning in America.

November 1—it's a cold morning for most of us.

And downright frosty for others.

It's a day of transition, a day burdened by the half-filled waterbed mattress of reality which some are compelled to bend over and hoist.

For a man named Herman Cain, an ill-advised, new campaign slogan has latched onto his Cinderella run at the Presidency: "It's November first...and the bubble has burst."

Following a Rocky-esque surge in the Republican polls, nutty America's love affair with the former Gandhi of Grease is regrettably waning. Allegations have surfaced that during the 1990s, Citizen Cain employed the old "9-9-9 technique" in attempt to seduce two employees while serving as president of the National Restaurant Association.

Apparently, he suggested that they meet on the ninth of every month at nine o'clock...and it would only take nine minutes.

They each responded that he should stuff his calzone and promptly reported his behavior to the association, subsequently reaching and undisclosed settlement.

When recently pressed on these allegations, Cain provided nothing but denials and non-answers. Each refusal to come clean has driven another nail into his pine pizza box, and Herman now appears to be foundering in the same rough political seas of which his rivals have long ago grown accustomed.

Another embattled icon arises this November morn, resolute to rub some dirt on her wounds and yank herself up by her nine-hundred and seventy dollar Prada stretch leather tall bootstraps.

Kim Kardashian awakens today to face life in the six foot, nine inch vacuum of her departed soul mate. Undoubtedly, she has by now exhausted every arrow in her shivering quiver to save a doomed love, lying panting in a pool of mascara after a seventy-two day ordeal. All that remains is a charred Tiffany box of a passion which burned white-hot like a...really hot sparkler, or something.

My thoughts extend to each of them; I know they're hurting.

As for the rest of us, we've been dealt a perennial challenge on this day. The two-month holiday season has officially commenced, and it kicks off with a massive supply of leftover Halloween candy, both at home and brought to the workplace. While the cache will rapidly ebb, we—okay, I—must summon the discipline to avoid grabbing, unwrapping and consuming everything in my path.

I cannot repeat last November's defining incident. I absentmindedly scooped up a Kit Kat on the way to the men's room and came to my senses too late: I was simultaneously chewing, swallowing and urinating.

Rock bottom.

With Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's looming ahead like a smoked gouda storm cloud, I am resolved to acknowledge everything that enters my pie hole; I don't care if it's a Dixie Cup of water. If I decide to slather half a cheese log on one Chicken in a Biskit, so be it, but I'm going to cognizantly process the entire sodium- and fat-laden event.

A famous Zen tenet is "when you are eating, you are eating."

Let's eat, then.

The past couple of months have been, like, totally sweet.

It starts just after Halloween.

Random bowls of candy begin populating your workplace. As you saunter down the hall on the way to the fax machine, a scattering of high fructose morsels beckon you from the top surface of an orphan file cabinet.

A step-and-a-half to the right is all it takes as you clutch three Kit Kats and two boxes of Dots and escort your sweet new companions briskly back to your cubicle. The last of the fun-sized candy has either disappeared down your gullet or wedged between your molars before you’re done scanning the Perez Hilton homepage.

After a few days of constant exposure to sweets, you’ve developed a habit. Every day around three, with Rolex precision, you rise from your Herman Miller with sinister intentions. You’ve purposefully manufactured a trek to the copy room to retrieve some unneeded printouts, but your true mission is to troll for sugar the way Jack the Ripper sought out anything standing in the darkness wearing a bustier.

Orbiting the floor with your paperwork, you betray the appearance of legitimacy, but your head swivels with sugarlust. After one full revolution, you’ve come up empty. You realize that you're quivering. Merciful God, please, provide for this sinner! For the sake of all that is Peter Paul!

As you obligatorily scan the kitchenette on the lonely walk back to your snackless cubicle, a familiar pink shape stares back from the countertop. Stained with grease spots, its cardboard lid is crookedly stuck open. Your primitive brain stem instantly recognizes that the carton has been delivered to that familiar location where snacks go to die, so you stride into the room and peak into the void. The smell of hours-old sugar and lard leaps to greet you as your head bows to address the half eaten maple bar.

Since you're far too overwhelmed with work to dispose of the empty doughnut carton, you tear off half of the half, rationalizing that you're benevolently saving a quarter of the compressed, lumpy dough for a starving comrade. And for one afternoon, your sugary demon is held at bay.

As fall melds into early winter, holiday baked goods replace candy as the drugs most commonly available at work. This is fine. This is good. If an afternoon unexpectedly arises with no complimentary sweet snacks in your office, you have no compunction about abandoning the workplace for Starbucks and its offering of for-cash baked goods. You, sir have needs, and right now, a macaroon is more important than oxygen.

Christmas and the new year celebration have now come to pass, and your pants are tight. You dismiss this an anomaly caused by laundry overdrying, and by now, your blood sugar is so thick it could be tapped like a Vermont  tree. You're feeling sluggish. You’ve lost all discipline, and finally, finally, you resolve, you proclaim and you promise.

You shall shed some pounds.

As you wallow in your shame on that first Monday back at work, you wonder how this all happened. How could a fun sized Kit Kat trigger such a spiral of hedonism? 

You know what? It doesn't matter, because you're back in the saddle, baby. You're purchasing a one-way ticket to Svelt Land. By June, you're going to look like a 1967 version of William Shatner, without girdle.

Starting tomorrow. Someone just brought in a tin of Almond Roca from Costco.