THE GAYEST OF TIMES

While drinking the last cup of coffee of the day it suddenly struck me that none of my friends has ever been grateful for the gift of apple cider vinegar over the holidays, or claimed that when they were stuck in that snow-drift on the way to Tahoe it saved their life. And sadly, we have none in the house that I can offer to guests. Obviously, this has to change. We live in California, and some people here swill that stuff like there is no tomorrow. While avoiding gluten (for religious reasons?), and saving the wales.
I don't know those people, but they exist.

I don't have any pot-smokering friends either.
Clearly, I am not social enough.

The food and drink at this time of year are clear evidence, however, that marijuana is one of the building blocks of our civilization, and the musical choices of the festive season point directly at alcohol and illegal substances. Little Drummer Boy? Ten Lords A Leaping?
These are either the musings of drunks and stoners.
Or the stuff of nightmares.

The holidays are not kind to people who prefer sobriety.


One of the regulars among the syphilitic old bastards infesting the back room at work was absent today because his wife, a Christian (he's Jewish, so he's already suffering) dragged him off to see the Nut Cracker. Normally he'd be cheering on the team, and losing his sh*t in front of the teevee with the rest of the diseased fossils, so I can only imagine his agony.
Holiday entertainments, for the most part, are torture.
It's like re-enacting The Donner Party.
Seasonally appropriate.

The next time I see him I'll have ask if he had a pocket flask, and does his wife know? And does she also know he's Jewish? Was he drunk when he proposed? Or just desperate? And horny? It was a cold winter night, perhaps, she was warm, he was lacquered, and the gay young people rutting on Lombard Street during Santa Con that year gave him ideas?

Did you two actually know each other already?
The Nut Cracker, Jeff. The Nut Cracker!
You poor suffering bastard.



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