Saturday, November 26, 2011
Green Ham and Humbug
The Cover of my New Book Available now at fine bookstores, (okay, some sort of bookstores, probably not the finest but certainly adequate) near you and at Amazon.ca. Barnes and Nobels is offering this book at a considerable discount I've just noticed. A 46% discount to be exact.
This weeks feature video: This video is a clip of Richard Gervais's discussion on the existence or non-existence of God. It kind of reminds me of Woody Allen who asked, "How can I believe in God when just yesterday my tongue got caught in the typewriter."
BIDDING ON THE LOUIS STORY IS NOW CLOSED
The Louis Saga Continues: Bidding on the 1,500 word essay "Tell Me about the Rabbit George." Signed, hand-bound limited edition of 1 is now closed. Winning Bid: $107.22 G.R. Chelsea Monday, December 2, 2011. I'd sincerely like to thank everyone who bid on this story. It gives this writer much encouragement. Thank you all. To follow the initial story see my July post on the right ----------->
This week's column was published in the West Quebec Post December 2010.
Green Ham and Humbug
“Christmas…” I said to George who was standing at the hallway mirror intensely examining himself with a vague look of horror as if he had somehow sprouted a set of antlers on his way in from the mailbox, “Christmas is becoming ridiculous.”
“Yes dear,” he said, “and why would that be?” He had gone into the bathroom and re-emerged with a hand mirror, which he was now swiveling above his head in front of the hallway mirror as if it were some kind of antenna and he was searching for signals.
“Christmas has become soulless and exhausting,” I said thoughtfully “and furthermore I like your bald spot. It’s a sign of intelligence or testosterone… One or the other… Certainly not both, I don’t think…”
“You’re such a comfort dear,” he said, “and Christmas was always exhausting.”
“True, “ I said. “And now it’s also politically incorrect and carnivorous. And if you didn’t have a bald spot, I’d have nothing to do when I went by your chair on the way to the kitchen. You know how much I like to fondle your bald spot.”
“It’s growing you know. Soon I will have little tufts of hair in the middle of my head and nothing on either side. Just like my father!” he pronounced morosely. “And no one likes Christmas. They all just pretend to. It’s part of our culture.”
At this point Frederick showed up at the door looking for a piece of wood. He had the harried look of a man desperate to prevent wildlife from invading his garbage box. Again.
“They chewed right through the bloody plastic on the recycling bin and there wasn’t even anything edible in there!” he insisted. “Well, maybe some candy canes. I freakin’ hate Christmas.”
“Your father,” I said to George, “was a legendary ladies man. He had three women at his funeral all claiming the front row. And this was with even less hair than yours! Frederick, if you look in the closet next to the front door, there’s a piece of wood and squirrels love candy cane and weren’t you supposed to bring those to put on the tree we haven’t yet bought? “
“Bah, humbug!” exclaimed Frederick from the depths of the front closet.
“You’re the one,” muttered George, “who insisted we leave the tree to the last minute because the cat ate the needles last year and we had an emergency vet call on Christmas Day. I thought that wood was for the shelf in the basement, wasn’t it? My father couldn’t help the fact that women just loved him. Did you or did you not say we were having dinner? I can’t possibly go Christmas shopping on a muffin and a bag of chips you know.”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I used the old cutting board as a shelf and it would have helped immensely if you hadn’t spilled the catnip on the pine needles. All I have is some leftover ham from I-don’t-know-when.”
“Right through!” exclaimed Frederick. “Not just a nibble! Right the hell through to the other side. How come this never happens to anyone else?”
“Do you have any of those candy canes left Frederick?” grumbled George who was looking at the apparently now green ham even more intently than his bald spot.
Jennifer arrived with two-year-old Nicholas in tow. He was dressed in striped mustard-colored pants and matching sweater with a pointed hood.
“Hello Nicholas! Have you seen Santa Claus yet?” I asked brightly to which he buried his chin on his chest. “Jennifer, do you really WANT tofu turkey or are you just being trendy? “
Jennifer was in a post-consumer meltdown. “Oh the toys! The toys! And nothing recyclable! Oh the noise! The noise!” Jennifer said, breaking into Dr. Seuss.
“Yeah sure! Everyone loves Santa Claus because he had a full head of hair!” mumbled George.
“Has! Has a full head of hair! He’s not dead yet you know. And, “ I said answering the door to Mabel who wanted a tea, “I read somewhere that raccoons have been known to actually symbiotically help squirrels break into garbage cans. We need plum pudding so we’re going shopping George. Here’s the tea, Mabel.”
“Whatever happened to the spirit of Christmas?” asked Mabel philosophically.
“Humbug,” said Frederick.
“Santa,” said Nicholas.
Posted by Sylvia Shawcross at 10:58 PM