Trying to put Nancy, Chucky, and ol’ Bug Eyes out of mind is a daunting task.
Do they celebrate Christmas? It’s doubtful. They’ve been so rotten all these years, they all certainly have enough coal that their garages look like a Royal Oak outlet store.
Offer that sad bunch of “Congress nuts” an all-expenses paid to Mexico, compliments of one of the cartels.
As much as those folks in Washington like drinking from the public trough, the fight to board the plane would be better than watching a group of Atlanta winos battle for a bottle of Ripple.
As a firm believer in controlling the controllable, there’s no need to get upset by the fantasy being played out by a bunch of Democratic dimwits.
Do yourself a favor, remember why we’re off work.
Relax. Go see a movie or four. Eat dinner with your family. Shop. Drink. Step on sharp toy parts that will provide an injury that will require stitches. Cinnamon rolls.
Connect with Rosa The Tamale Lady. She makes the real thing, the ones with the husks. They’re good no matter the temperature outside. Do yourself a favor and open a window.
Call your favorite priest and ask him what time midnight mass starts. That would be as fun as calling Skip Caray after a Braves game and ask him to explain the infield fly rule.
It’s my belief the kids who don’t get to experience the wonder of Santa are getting gypped, big time.
The parents who have perfected the Santa swerve are providing lifelong skills of not being truthful. It’s a perfect training ground for grooming future politicians.
Don’t misunderstand. I love Christmas. Santa. Red-nosed reindeer. Seeing folks crammed into a manger and marveling how Christmas is time to affirm our beliefs in a Savior.
I pray Chris and Greg will let me read ‘The Night Before Christmas’ to them. If not, I’ll read it to Chester while he belches tamale sauce and queso dip. Better open the window for that Christmas treat too.
The way Santa worked at our house when we lived in Wilmington, Calif.: DeeDee, my dear sweet godmother convinced me that she would ride to the house on Santa’s sleigh. But before she could hitch a ride with Santa, I had to go to sleep.
And I believed it!
It’s a good thing there were no phone solicitors back then to prey on my gullibility. I would have bought so much swag my parents would have been forced to add a sixth mortgage to our rising debt.
There were only two nights a kid can’t fall asleep: Christmas Eve and the night before school starts. I usually nodded off without getting yelled at, threatening that we would do yardwork on Christmas.
Even at my young age, I knew edging the yard with small shears was not a viable hangover cure, so Dad was going to sleep until dinner.
I guess having a budding lunatic in the house (me, not Dad) made my parents stay on their toes and expect the unexpected.
I didn’t “fake sleep” so Santa would come and do his thing. With everyone in la-la land, I quietly opened my door and peeked into the living room.
All systems were “go.”
DeeDee snoring on the couch. Check.
Fruitcake, the same fruitcake from the past five years. Check.
I planned to swipe that cake, break it into pieces and be a formidable force at the next rock fight.
Presents galore. Check.
Holy Mickey Mantle! Was that really the Louisville Slugger I had asked for? Quiet went out the window as I lumbered across the room, aiming to wrap my fingers around the real thing.
Before there was any bat-fondling, my attempt to vault over the sofa resulted in DeeDee being knocked on her sizable keister. She screamed in terror as she saw a figure that had taken refuge behind the drapes.
I knew this was going to get worse when I heard a very unhappy Dad speaking in tongues with words that would have embarrassed an oilfield worker.
And he had my bat. Forget fondling. He had the hit away sign.
I burst out from the drapes, acting like I was making a curtain call. It looked like some of the adults were taking a trip to “heart-attackville.”
While Mom and Dad tried to decide which reform school would be providing my education, I silently exited stage right. I prayed a rosary, thankful that this was no one’s last Christmas.
It has provided a lifetime of laughter.
Merry Christmas, Friends.
Mike Tasos’ column is published every other Sunday. Comments can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org. He is also on Facebook.