Friday, December 15, 2023


Several years ago a fellow blogger, Sara, imagined me as a short grumpy furball with a pipe. Which is surprisingly accurate, if you keep in mind that I am not excessively hairy (so not a furball; I do not shed), I'm not small and globular but lean and wiry, albeit not as tall as a cornfed Iowa monstrosity or inner city honky trying out for the basketball team, and my disposition is quite sunny, why, I am the very paradigm of sweetness and light.

Repeat: Sunny. Sweetness. Light.

Jonathan in Israel, you can stop laughing now. Cynic.

So, if you see a jolly, cheerful, angular man in a resplendent Santa costume which has been freshly dry-cleaned beaming at you while wandering around the orphanage with hugs and candy for all the little kiddiewinkies, even the misbehaving trolls, it might be me.
The problem with most Santas is that they smell funny.
Crimson jammies haven't been cleaned.
In years. Decades even.
Plus those beards. Betcha they look like right degenerates under that growth. My beard is neatly trimmed, spare, and upstanding. I'm not some scruffy unkempt slovenly wino in greasy red coloured overalls, so desperate for human contact that I offer lap rides to short people and horned animals, or resort to bribery so that the little buggers will write me letters.

Come to think of it, nix on the freshly cleaned crimson togs. Maybe I'll go naked for the holidays. It will be a refreshing change of pace. You people deserve it.

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