Friday, December 27, 2019


The only things left for Ecky to remove this morning are Petey the Christmas Penguin and a tree, up on the beam. Seeing as penguins can't fly, one wonders how Petey got up there. And there's probably a rational explanation that fits in with Petey's personal narrative as a magic holiday beast, but I shan't research the details. I'm still traumatized by the story that Rudolph was bitten by a radioactive spider after American tests up near the Arctic Circle, and Frosty actually being a deceased fellow pipe-smoker who wasn't let back into the house by his mean wussy-ass anti-smoking health-freak kinfolk at Christmas. But in any case, we've taken down the Christmas decorations at work, including Zombie Santa.
The place looks a lot cleaner now.

Rusty Sparkles the lawn reindeer is gone too. Ecky will be glad. He hates that animal, and has fantasies of abusing her.

It's probably a memory of being tied to a metal beast and left as an offering for the fire ants as a child.

As is traditional in Southern California. Where he grew up.

My coworker yesterday is a decade and a half older than me, and knows what he's doing. Most of the time. Despite being a decade and a half older. And more creaky than I am.

First voice: "Ooh-urgh!"

Second voice, softly to a third person: "That's the sound of old men."

First voice, to no one in particular: "I have to pee now."

And there you have it. Old men need to pee. The best thing you can give the old geezers in your family for Christmas or Hanukkah is a warm empty bathroom. Preferably with an ashtray inside.

I am considerably younger than either of the gentleman with whom I worked yesterday, as well as several of the crotchetty layabouts in the backroom occupied with cigars and post-holiday grumbling.

One of whom is Jewish, but married to a Vietnamese Catholic. Who frightens the bejayzus out of him every year by decorating the house with icicles, santas, tinsel, holly, elves, festive tableaux ...... all amateurishly electrified, as has been traditional ever since that single mom gave birth to the miracle baby in a shed with a bad wiring and a bare light bulb and cowshit. Personally I feel that cowshit should always be part of the decorations, as a reminder of our more bestial nature and a crucial note of verisimilitude, but I have as yet not gotten anyone else on board with that. That's probably one of the main reasons I don't decorate for Christmas myself, because without the cowshit it would just be hypocritical. A hollow mockery. Living a lie. But I can understand why he's frightened.
He's Jewish, and has the soul of an electrician.

"What is all this badly wired possibly dangerous trash in every room? Is this the year we all die in a religious fire? And thank heavens she hasn't discovered plastic glowing cowshit yet!"

Possibly the cowshit would be the drop that makes the bucket overflow. Next year he's probably going to be at the office twelve hours a day throughout the season, because government enterprise is non-denominational, irreligious, and not covered in electric cowshit.
Either that, or he'll be in his nice warm bathroom with an ashtray for six solid weeks. From Thanksgiving till long after New Year.
Before she puts the plastic santa in there.

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