TROLL IN A BOWL

Well, the elf still lives, but he appears to be in hiding.  Yesterday Yukon on a Futon started the search.  We all know that it must be Yukon Cornelius to the rescue.  After all, he is the Greatest Prospector of the North.  But, alas, the elf escapes our clutches and is last seen in the Barbaros' Christmas tree.

So I head to my own tree to find help.  Let me tell you, this is no easy trick.  I put up some of the ornaments, but I also had some help from youngest son and his two pals.  I search high and low, far and wide (okay, not that far and wide - It's a medium-sized fake tree).  Nestled deep in the synthetic limbs I locate the red-haired dynamo.

Yes, yes.  If anyone can assist Yukon Cornelius, it is this guy.

Watch out, Elf.  We're coming for you.  And when we do find you, trust me: Nobody, and I do mean no body (wink wink nudge nudge) will find you.  So keep running little elf.  This next chalk outline is for you.

LIMERICKS TO TROLL IN A BOWL

To thwart the Shelf Elf is our goal,
His evil is beyond control.
Instead we do find
A teeny behind
That belongs to the Troll in a Bowl.

Shelf Elf has an ugly dark soul,
And he smells like a cheese casserole.
He hides in the tree
Acting all Christmas-y,
But he's no match for Troll in a Bowl!

(Yes, the first time I saw the back of this ornament, I was equally disturbed.  You're welcome.)

YUKON ON A FUTON

Those of you who read this blog regularly, or at least recently, know that the Elf on the Shelf is on my Hit List.  I'm not even kidding -- the elf must die.  You'll also know that I accidentally stumble upon this parasite while shopping at Target.  My friend and I find an entire display of these little freakazoids, boxed up and ready to go on an aisle end-cap.

I approach the display with trepidation.  I have evil plans for this little bastard, so purchasing one just might be in the cards today.  First I take a picture of the display.  Then I move in to check the price; surely these ghastly minions must be cheap money.

Right?

Wrong.

$29.95.

Yup, you read that correctly: $29.95 to have your own house haunted and terrorized by a miniature hellion that stares and thinks and tattles to Santa.  Amazing that I can purchase a "rat" at Target a $30. I am tempted to buy one and name it Whitey Bulger.

But truly, $30 is $30, and that will buy dinner, frozen yogurt, and a new book.  There is no way I'm shelling out that kind of cash for a joke gift, even if it is for me.  So I devise a new scheme.  It may well involve running to the fabric store and buying material to fashion some miniature outfits, but I'm so busy, so incredibly, exhaustingly busy, trying to get my paper and presentation ready for Tuesday's grad school class.  I don't know when I can pull off the scheme.

Then I remember.  I haven't finished unpacking all of the Christmas paraphernalia yet.  I know I have a few toys and tricks up my own sleeve. 

Ladies, gents, children, others: I bring you Installment #1 of the Anti-Elf.

Today's episode -- YUKON ON A FUTON

My name is Cornelius:
I love silver and gold.
I escape with Rudolph -
Watch mayhem unfold;
I capture the Bumble -
Whose teeth will be sold;
I murder the Elf
On the Shelf. He is cold.
I do not regret it,
If truth must be told.
I am The Yukon
Sitting on on a Futon.

LET IT SNOW

The anticipation is killing me.

Or maybe that's just the lower back pain I've been afflicted with since I've spent so much time in my computer chair writing a research paper.  Either way, I'm pained.

You see, I've been watching the weather map.  It's raining now, and we've had a bit of what sounded like sleet pinging off the siding of the house.  But it's still mostly rain.

But I'm waiting.  And waiting.  And waiting for it to snow.

You can throw this right back into my face when I start complaining about the weather in February or March, when I'm in pain from shoveling or because I slipped on the ice and I've fallen -- and I can't get up. Right now, though, I'm waiting not so patiently.  I keep going over to the window, rolling open the louvers, and gazing out into the night like some kind of reverse creeper.

Nothing yet.  Nothing but occasional rain.

The weatherman says it's going to snow around 3:30 a.m. and end quickly.  I'm too tired to stay up that late, so if does snow and you're awake to see it at 4:00 a.m., don't call me.  Take creeper-like photos, but leave my slumberous self alone.

Like I said, when we're sitting in the middle of a blizzard in a month or so, feel free to remind me I awaited the white stuff.  Until then, though, just indulge me.

NOTE TO SELF: KILL THE ELF

Okay, I'll admit I like Christmas.  I like it a lot.  Sure, it's stressful and I'm going crazy trying to finish up a grad school project and shop for the holidays and not become a raging alcoholic in the process.  But can someone please explain to me: What in the hell is Elf on a Shelf?

First of all, the elf is creepy.  He reminds me of those weird and sinister Annalee dolls.  Maybe he escaped from the Jordan Marsh Enchanted Village.  Maybe he's some benevolent version of the sinister shrunken heads that live at the Museum of Natural History in the Smithsonian.  I don't know.  (Pictures posted

for your displeasure.)

And since I don't know, I looked up the creepy little dude on the Internet.

I discovered that children are not allowed to touch the elf (apparently his name isn't Michael Jackson), that families adopt him (my kids would probably rather adopt a dog), that he flies to the North Pole every night and tattles his lazy ass to Santa so no deed (good or bad) goes unpunished, and that he returns to a different perch in the house every morning (creeper).  It's like Trilogy of Terror meets Rudolph -- Hide the damn knives if you know what's good for you, and never turn your back on that elf for a second.

A friend clued me in to a more sinister side of this elf, though.  Apparently this elf has a naughty side.  It seems that if I stay up late enough, I might encounter this elf at the local bar, or pooping peppermint candies into the potty, or snorting Splenda, or doing nasty things to Barbie.  I'm not quite sure if this revolts me or impresses me. 

I know now that I've posted this, at least one of you sick bastards is going to send me an Elf on the Shelf just to watch me twitch and keep me from sleeping at night.  I swear to you, if you even try it, that elf will haunt your home day and night, week in and week out, until you are terrified to leave your locked bathroom.  I'll even dress that little fucker up in horrifying mini-costumes, maybe attach a miniature sound device, and generally bring mayhem crashing down on you.

Ahhhh.  I feel better.  Nothing like a good rant full of hollow threats and evil plotting.  Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside! 

Happy Holidays, all!  And to all, an Elf on the Shelf.

IT'S GONE!

IT'S GONE!

Oh, thank all the gods it's gone.  I thought it would never go away.  It was like a fungus -- no matter where I looked, there it was.  It was in the refrigerator, laughing at me every time I opened the door, squeaking out from its plastic container.  Its carcass was in the trash can outside, the cover held down securely by specialized handles that even a raccoon couldn't budge (though it did put large claw holes on the top where it held on for dear life trying to get inside at the plastic bags full of goodies).

Finally, early tonight, it ends.  It is a brief battle tonight, nothing like last Thursday's strugglefest.  Tonight all it takes is a sharp knife, slicing a triangular pattern along the top, scooping out an oozing hunk of flesh-toned crust, and zapping the entire mess for about two minutes.  I don't even bother with the beer; I go directly to the ice cold milk.  By five o'clock, any remnants, any reminder, any shred of evidence has disappeared.

DING.

No, not "Fries are done..."  Microwave is done.  I open it to reveal steam and heat and an aroma I waited so long to sniff again , which I finally did about a week ago.  Now it's the same odor that's giving me agida.  But I will suffer for my art ... I mean, I will suffer for this once-twelve-pounder.

After stuffing my face with most of the remaining turkey pot pie, I finally send the last piece and a half (with the crust edge picked off) into the garbage.

ALAS,the Thanksiving turkey is finally gone.  RIP, good buddy,  We'll see your cousin next Thanksgiving.  Here's the invite.  Now go pack on about thirteen pounds.

LOOMING DEADLINE: MORE BAD POETRY

Of all the things that I do hate

I dislike Thanksgiving so late

With December here so fast

The Christmas spirit will not last

The season barely three weeks long

Goes quickly by like an Xmas song

But worst of all I realize

My unsuspecting big surprise

That in a week (or days so few)

I have a final project due

Damn, I thought I had more time

Epiphany not so sublime

So off to work my old brain goes

To process all the junk it knows

And wrap it up with smart retort

To hand it in as my report

This shortened season isn't right

But I am tired … so, good night

PS Damn, how come it's morning?

Next time give a little warning

Okay, off to write that paper

So I'll end this senseless caper.

CHARLIE BROWN-ISH IN THE 'HOOD

What the .... What the hell is this shit?!  What the holy hell is this crap masquerading itself as "A Charlie Brown Christmas"?  I think I've just been permanently damaged.

Linus telling Santa, "Hey, man..."

Sally bullying a kid and stealing his tree

A girl telling Linus, "My name is Jezabel"

Lucy finding the word "sister" in the Bible then demanding a gift for locating it

A wooden tree shape falling out of Snoopy's house

Snoopy playing folk music on an accordian

And this is only after turning it on halfway through.

Either the television industry is smoking crack or I am because this show sucks.  SUCKS.  I haven't watched it in a few years, so I thought it would be fun to turn the show on, but apparently it's the Brown gang that has "turned on."  There are way too many drugs or 'shrooms or something being ingested in this new TV neighborhood.  How freakin' bad is it when the teacher is the only one who makes any sense (wooomp waaaahhh wooomp woooomp waaahhhhh...)?

Listen up, television industry:  Don't fuck with my Christmas specials.

When I put on "A Charlie Brown Christmas," that's exactly what I expect to see.  The very same one that came out in 1965.  Not some urbanized crap that some idiot thinks is more realistic for today's kids.  Be serious!  Charles Schulz knew what the hell he was doing.  This is almost as bad as Jim Carrey's live-action Grinch or Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka.  Okay, to be honest, Depp is probably more like the perverse, child-molesting (murderer?) in the original story than Gene Wilder played him to be.  And to be even more honest, Ralphie in A Christmas Story really comes from a much, much, much darker place.  (Read In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash if you don't believe me.)

But these are literary realities, movies that were made based on widely-read books.  Charlie Brown is based on the cartoon books and the comic strip of our youth.  What's the matter, are people afraid the whole Christmas thing is going to offend non-Christians or something?  I hate to clue anybody in, but Christmas IS a Christian holiday.  People really have to get over it. 

I can't even begin to describe how disappointed, depressed, and emotionally scarred I am from watching twenty minutes of that holiday special.  Did they show the original in the first half-hour and I missed it?  I mean, really.  Someone clue me in here.  I turned on the television at 8:31.  Did I miss something, or is this really how it's going to go from here on out?

Well, RIP, Charlie Brown.  You had a good run and you died way too young.  Forty-Eight is hardly a life at all.  I guess it had to come to this.  I mean, everything else is getting censored and rewritten and re-imagined: history books are re-writing history and literature is re-writing Twain and others to be more PC.  Don't worry, Charlie Brown;  Huck Finn and Guy Montag and Hamlet (et al) are right behind you being cast off into oblivion.

Fucking shameful.