Monday, December 16, 2013


Much as I try, it proves hard to convince others that this blogger is actually a sweet sensitive guy that you can trust around your rowdy brats or senescent old-folks. Not, please understand, that I really want to spend much time around rugrats or mentally spent fossils, but that seems to be the gold-standard of sweet sensitive guy.

And, of course, the reason for being accepted as a sweet sensitive guy is that it might get one a date sometime. On a slow evening. When the dance clubs are closed due to police raids. Or pest-control issues.
Apparently, dating is a good thing.
I've been told so.

The last time (several years ago) one of my friends bludgeoned me into baby-sitting, I apparently made quite an impression.

I told his little tyke the story about the three billy goats gruff.

Except that I couldn't remember what happened to the first two billy goats, so I shortened the tale considerably.

"This big bold shaggy billy goat was heading home. When he got to the bridge, a gruff and fearsome voice roared out from underneath. " I am the TROLL that owns this bridge! You must either pay me a toll or do as I say!" To which the big billy goat responded "I don't think so, screw you, dickwad!". Whereupon the troll rushed up to grab him, and the goat lowered his head and charged the troll, knocking him over and killing him. Then the billy goat ate the corpse. The end."

As it turns out, in that household goats are vegetarian souls, and trolls are lovable nature beings with fur. Gentle, but sometimes misguided.
Problems are not solved by violence.

My friend's wife has kept me away from little Johnny ever since.

I am, she avers, a horrendously bad influence.

Possibly insane or dangerous.

Stupid softie.

This blogger, you should know, is all about goat-empowerment, and resolutely opposed to the fascism of trolls. Their sense of entitlement has lasted too long, the time has come to reject the hegemony of supernatural Scandinavians in whatever field.

Down with all shaggy Nordic myths, the caprine classes have risen!

Besides, that bridge was supposed to have been paid off years ago.

Last I heard, she was telling the brat that Santa's elves lovingly craft gifts in a well-ventilated factory for a living wage under excellent working conditions, with full benefits, and that the best toys are sustainably green and socially responsible.

Which is just plain wrong.

The reason Santa operates a brutal sweat-shop with no heating and dangerous equipment so far away at the North Pole is that if he tried exploiting elves in the continental United States like that, we'd string his fat red hiney up and torch the warehouse.
Capitalism at its cruelest, several elves crippled each year.
The unions should be righteously outraged.
She's ruining Christmas!

If I were a Christian, I'd get back into her good graces, so that I could tell little Johnny the truth, and try to heal some of the damage her cotton-wool ideas are doing.

But I am not, and I don't really care if little Johnny doesn't 'get it'.

I'm not that fond of children anyway. Not hers.

Christmas shouldn't be about gifts.

Perhaps about goats.

Red goats

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