Sunday, December 26, 1999
Didn't we just do the Christmas thing? I don't mean yesterday, goofy.
I mean, like, last month?
Speaking of eggnog, why don't we ever hear of any other kind of nog?
If all nog is eggnog (as my dictionary heavily implies) why don't we just
say nog and save some time and print? We don't say cowmilk,
do we? No. If there are other kinds of nog, well, what the
hell are they? Distillednog? Cokenog? The Unnog?
Side note: While looking up nog in my dictionary I came across the
phrase non composementis. That's a legal term for "not of
sound mind and hence not legally responsible." I hereby announce
that Non composementis is the official sub-title of
this entry. I dedicate that sub-title to the person who made it possible
- Johnny Mathis and his rendition of "White Christmas" as heard over the
sound system of a Chinese restaurant tonight. The same rendition
which constituted the first Christmas song I heard this year back on November
1 - almost two months ago. The eggnog now clogging my one good
artery was merely a minor accomplice in rendering me non composementis
Ok, let's talk presents. Jester really liked the liver- and tuna-scented
candles I got him. My wife really liked the "Hits of the '70s - Vol.
18" CD that I got her. I liked the "Yellow Submarine" mug she got
me, proving that two people living in different decades with a high cat
can still have a happy marriage. OK, so she got me the robot from
the '90s movie version of "Lost in Space" instead of the one from the '60s
TV series - nobody's perfect. I found a place on-line where I can
get what I want - plus Robby the Robot from the '50s "Forbidden Planet"
movie as well. Wooo-hooo!
Not that my mug was the best gift I got. The best gift I got was
a CD-ROM which tells me exactly where everyone was on earth and what they
were doing the day I discovered the plays of Eugene Ionesco.
Ok, cards. I got a few. One came all the way from Colombia.
Seems the army down there has been battling insurgents for decades.
This year it tried a new tactic: Sending the insurgents Christmas cards.
Some 100,000 cards were sent out. Last Friday I got mine. Well,
one came, anyway, addressed "To The Guerrilla Residing At PO Box 8121,
Lima, OH, 45805-0121." The card had a picture of a drunken, bribe-taking
soldier on its front. On the inside were the words "Feliz Navidad,
Prospero ano, guerrillero!" which my Spanish-speaking Taco Bell dog doll
tells me translates as "Merry Christmas and Prosperous New Year, guerrilla!"
I'm really not sure how to take this, but it did bring a tear to the eye
of my photo of Che Guevara. Whether it was a tear induced by sadness
or by laughter, I can't say - Che and I aren't on speaking terms since
he appropriated the frame I bought for his photo, broke it up, and delivered
it to the poor peasants of Peru.
There's more I could say but I think there's a bit of egg shell in my throat
that I think I best go try to remove - maybe with the claw arm of the wrong
"Lost in Space" robot I got, since I'm a firm believer in making the best
of a bad situation.
(©1999 by Dan Birtcher using the chop
stick he shoved into his ear at the restaurant