Sunday, Dec. 30, 42 A.B.
Unwritten Entries Reduced For Quick Sale
The word on the street is that another year is drawing to a close. In fact, as near as I can tell, I only have a couple of days left in which to post all the things I wanted to say over the course of the last twelve months but never did.
Like yesterday. Yesterday I wanted to post 64 entries in honor of Mary Tyler Moore's birthday. It would be most ungallant of me to reveal Ms. Moore's age, so I'll just say that I didn't pick the number 64 out of thin air and let it go at that. The important thing is, I didn't post 10 or 20 entries, let alone 60-plus. Indeed, a quick check of my index reveals that I didn't post at all yesterday. How can I ever forgive myself? Would reciting 64 Hail Mary's relieve my guilt? Can I really stoop so low as to ply my conscience with chocolate yet again until it has no choice but to pardon my latest sin? Or should I hastily try to escape all blame by nonchalantly changing the subject like they taught us to do in Politicians School?
It was only a few days ago that I failed to post another entry I had every intention of posting but for some reason or other never did. It was an entry I intended to address to Santa, hence the clever title "Dear Santa...." In that entry I was going to thank Santa for all the things he didn't bring me for Christmas this year. Like the Warren Kimble designer dinnerware which had had the American flag stamped across its every cup, saucer, and plate. Maybe it's just me, but I simply don't have any desire to chase peas across Old Glory or waste my precious eating time attempting to figure out whether I'm properly finishing my mashed potatoes or improperly starting in on the stars.
Among the other things I wanted to thank Santa for not bringing me: The diamond-studded flag pendant I saw advertised for $89; the 14-karat ribbon- and heart-shaped flag pins I saw for $119; and a certain flag ring which was going for a mere $249. For some reason, I just didn't feel like displaying my patriotism this way at a time when my country has just finished dropping over 10,000 bombs on a country where bandages, needles, and sutures are in very short supply, and doctors make perhaps $20 a month. Perhaps it was the irrational fear that my friends would think me a callous, jingoistic idiot with far more money than morality which held me back? Perhaps. But then what made me want to thank Santa for not bringing me those cheap, flag-pattern ties, boxer shorts, and sweat socks I saw advertised? It's not as if I have good taste in ties, or that I was worried that my friends might accidentally pledge allegiance to my butt when they were aiming at my boxer shorts, or that I ever move enough to risk desecrating my socks with actual sweat. What, then, is going on here? Is it my long-standing desire to appear to be an almost- jester and not a certified clown? Or does it have something to do with those giggle-inducing visions I've been having of Andorrans all decked in Andorran flags like witless refugees from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta?
In the end, it doesn't matter, of course. I didn't post my thanks to Santa in a timely fashion, and doing so now would only draw his attention to my tardiness. Better to just forget the old fart and hope he has the decency to return the favor instead of pelting me with coal. For once, luck appears to be on my side in this matter. Rumor has it that Santa's now hidden away in the witness protection program until he can tell some military tribunal all about who's been naughty and who's been nice this year. So much for Santa-knee sitter confidentiality, eh?
There were other entries I wanted to post prior to Christmas, of course - lots and lots of entries (and a gopher, too!) - but it seems things kept getting in the way.
For example, there was one I was going to entitled "Tripping On A Flat Surface." I really liked that title, but I couldn't think of an entry to go with it. That's never stopped me before, of course, but this time... well, I was so deeply stumped that I decided it probably wasn't an entry title at all but the name of an entire new journal. Look for it appear as soon as I can find a host site willing to give me more than 50 megs of space for all my nothing.
Another title for an entry I ended up never posting: "Things Always Look Better After A Nice, Hot Shower - Especially If You Wear Your Glasses In There With You And Wash The Lenses As You Wash Your Face." The problem that time was that the title got me so excited, I had to spend the rest of the day taking a cold shower to settle myself down. And that kinda negated the point of the whole thing. DOH!
Perhaps the entry I most wanted to post but did not involved an evening at the symphony earlier this year. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, but it's hard to explain to people why. It wasn't the music, or the pageantry, or the way amateurs in the audience can cough in time to the former without getting any spit on the latter. No, it was the thrill I always get whenever I see 30 or so people sitting on a stage for more than an hour without any of them having to get up and tend to the needs of even one of the seven natural holes in their bodies. While others may take hope and strength from the examples set by courageous fire fighters, Olympic athletes, or Neil Armstrong, I take mine from being in the presence of a second cellist who can actually make it through an entire concerto without giving in to the sudden urge to get up and go pee. That an entire orchestra manages this feat is truly amazing. After all, watching 30 people sit for an hour is the equivalent of watching a single person sit for 30 hours. And given that we have not just one but seven holes that always seem to need something or other, it's like watching a single person sit for 30 times 7 or no less than 210 hours - far longer than an entire week! And yet the newspaper reviewers go on and on about the majesty of the music - ha! The music is just an unfortunate distraction. It's the mere sight of 30 people sitting on stage for an hour that gives me the strength to get through all those restaurant visits where the kid at the next table can't resist chugging catsup straight from the bottle for 5 seconds.
Perhaps the entry I never got around to posting this year but am most likely to still post bears the title "Three Heads Are Better Than Two" in my notes. It will be an entry all about my Norelco rotary razor, and how much more poorly it's been working ever since I accidentally jammed a fingernail into one of its three heads. Seems that nail managed to bend the razor guard such that the razor will no longer turn below it without making a terrible, terrible racket (worse than that made by a child guzzling Heinz's finest, in fact). I solved the problem by removing that particular cutter, but that had the unforeseen consequence of reducing my Norelco's efficiency by some 33%. According to my calculator, this means I am now having to spend about 33% more of my time dragging a humming black-plastic thingee across my face when I'd much rather be writing about doing so instead.
And it's all because of that damn Norelco ad I saw as a child. You know the one? Of course you do. Santa is perched atop The Three Headed Beast and sailing oh-so-merrily across a pretty wintry landscape. I waited years and years to get a Three Headed Beast of my own so I, too, could know the ho-ho-ho-inducing pleasures of a good Norelcoing, and now... now I find myself every morning, bleary-eyed and increasingly red faced, attempting to cajole a lame, Two Headed Beast to remove the stubble from my chin instead. It is NOT a pretty picture, so of course the urge to post it here is virtually irresistible. Look for me to do so SOON.
In the meantime, I think it's time for me to write Norelco and ask them why replacement blade guards aren't sold apart from replacement blades, and why replacement blades aren't sold except in sets of three, and why sets of three replacement blades cost more than an entire new Remington.
Then again, it might be time to trim my nails before I snag a flag, rip Santa's cover, or send a second cellist running screaming from the stage.
Last Home Next
(©Now by DJ Birtcher because Santa didn't bring him an
auto-copyrighter even though it was the ONLY thing he asked for)
PS - If I don't post an entry tomorrow, it'll most likely be because I accidentally trimmed a finger instead. If you want to celebrate New Year's Eve by coming over and helping me look for it in the snow, feel free!