Soup To Nuts

By: Joseph O'Brien

To Whom It May Concern:

For the love of God, will you please stop putting carrot chunks the size of manhole covers in your otherwise satisfying soups! When I fish them out, as I have been forced to do on several occasions now, it has a considerable shallowing effect on the soup. It is not unlike what happens to the water level in a bathtub when a large man steps out after a long soak. A giant discus of carrot in my Italian Wedding soup does not make for a happy marriage!

I have noticed this trend developing with your Cream of Broccoli as well. I remember when bite-sized bits of broccoli were evenly distributed through the rich, creamy broth. Now I’m confronted by massive stalks bobbing at the surface of the soup, sometimes jutting up like the stern of a sinking battleship.

I suspect you may be trying to cut corners and save a few dollars by adding these enormous vegetables to your soups as filler. Now hear this I — would gladly pay up to fifty cents more if I were assured that my soup would be free of these cumbersome, unpalatable obstructions.

Now a note on flatware: While it’s perfectly understandable to have a supply of plastic utensils on hand to accommodate takeout orders, would it kill you to provide silverware for guests who choose to dine in? If the plastic must stay, I request that you at least discontinue the “spork” and give your adult patrons the choice of a spoon or fork.

While I’m at it, I’d like to mention what I see as a steady decline in variety on your candy rack. I often stop in your establishment midafternoon for a little pick-me-up. Lately I’ve been dismayed to discover that many of my favorites, specifically Necco Wafers, are only sporadically available, if at all. I realize that these may not be the cool, jet-set candies for the youth of today, but I for one have been buying them from you on a regular basis for years. I would appreciate the courtesy of a reorder when you run out. Business is a two-way street.

I also feel that the seasonal/holiday candy is left on display for too long after its time has passed. For instance, the Halloween Snickers treats that come in fun ghost and jack-o-lantern shapes were still on the rack this past Thanksgiving. Not to mention the Christmas candies which were displayed well into the New Year. You also brazenly offer Cadbury Eggs year round, which I believe is against the law.

My problem here is twofold. First, it calls into question the quality of the candy. Nobody wants to eat something that’s been collecting dust on the rack for months. Second, it tarnishes the spirit of the season. If you could get a Snickers shaped like a ghost or a Milky Way shaped like a Christmas tree any old time you felt like it, it wouldn’t be such a treat, would it?

In a way I thank you for your flimsy candy selection as of late. I’ve been trying to shed a few pounds and you’re helping to keep me in ship shape! I will say, however, that my diet recently led me to try one of the salads advertised on your new Heart Smart menu. I hope I’m not being too graphic when I say that the salad resembled something at the bottom of a garbage disposal. Perhaps if you diced the vegetables for the soups with the same vigor and saved the massive vegetables for your salads you could kill two birds with one stone!

My final complaint (sorry to be such a gloomy Gus!) has to do with your help. I appreciate your doing away with the long parade of ne’er-do-wells, second-story men, and sneaks that you’ve had posted at the register over the years. But this new woman is a different breed of cat, if you’ll pardon my French. While I believe her intentions to be good, she often holds up the flow of the checkout line bantering with the customers. I don’t personally enjoy being badgered with inquiries about the weather. I am not — repeat — am not a meteorologist!

What’s more, her moods turn on a dime. I recall an incident two weeks ago where, after what I thought was a nice conversation about your store’s shabby peanut butter selection, I clearly heard her refer to me as a “paunchy blowhard.” To another customer no less, when I’m sure he was well aware that I was still within earshot. I’m not the type to attempt to get someone fired, especially in these trying times, but I trust you will dole out the proper punishment.

I think it beneficial to both of us to have these grievances aired and to begin an open exchange as yours is the only deli convenient to my work and home. But if this neglect keeps up, I warn you that I may be forced to take my business elsewhere.

I am,

Sidney Gruten

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Greetings from Parma — Wish You Were Dead!

By: Mollie Wilson

“[Parmalat chief financial officer Fausto] Tonna appeared in no mood to co-operate when he arrived for interrogation yesterday. He turned to journalists to say: ‘I wish you and your families a slow and painful death.’”

— Financial Times, January 6, 2004

MOTHER: Fausto, drink your milk before you leave the table.

TONNA: [grumbles]

MOTHER: Now, Fausto, what have I told you about wishing for people’s deaths?

FATHER: You can’t go through life that way, son.

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BANK TELLER: Excuse me, sir, but there’s an error in your addition on this deposit slip.

TONNA: Oh, is there really?

BANK TELLER: Yes, sir, see, in the billions column…

TONNA: Well, then, Mr. Smartypants Banker, why don’t you go somewhere with your family and die, slowly and painfully?

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RADIO ANNOUNCER: There’s a three-car accident blocking all the inbound lanes, so you commuters might want to find an alternate route into the city today.

TONNA: I hope you and every one of your relatives are diagnosed with life-threatening illnesses on the very same day, and you all spend every day of the next three years attending each other’s funerals.

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WAITER: I’m sorry, sir, but we’re all out of lemonade.

TONNA: In that case, I wish for you and everyone you love to be buried alive in a landslide, along with all your most precious family heirlooms. And can I substitute fries for the baked potato?

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CAT: [scratches sofa]

TONNA: Gordo, I have told you repeatedly that I don’t want you scratching the furniture, and now I hope you contract cat-leprosy and die licking your painful lesions.

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CUSTOMER SERVICE REPRESENTATIVE: Good afternoon, Mr. Tonna. Do you have time to respond to a brief customer satisfaction survey?

TONNA: No, but you’ll have plenty of time while you’re dying from the long, drawn-out illness that I hope will afflict you.

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CRITIC: “I’m With Her” is one sitcom you can afford to skip.

TONNA: May your tongue be covered with boils and your eyelashes fall out overnight. I love “I’m With Her.”

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DOLLY PARTON: [sings] I wish you joy and happiness, but above all this, I wish you love.

TONNA: Why, thank you, buxom American country singer. I’m afraid I still wish you a painful death, but perhaps I will make it a quick one in light of your kind thoughts.

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WIFE: Fausto, how do you feel about roast beef tonight?

TONNA: How do you feel about dying a slow and painful death?

WIFE: Okay, I’ll make chicken. Jesus.

CAT: [meows]

WIFE: And stop cursing the cat!

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BRIDE AND GROOM: Thanks for coming to our wedding, Fausto!

TONNA: It’s my pleasure, and may I be the first to wish you both a very slow and painful death together.

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Chez Five Day Forecast: Our Chef’s Selections

By: Neil Pasricha

Sunday


Medley of fresh baby clouds tossed with a generous helping of crisp leaf-infused winds and served until late afternoon. Presented with peu soleil.

Monday


Slightly braised hail, served on densely marinated skies and drenched in eau jus. Add umbrella or hat $3.

Tuesday


A medley of exotic precipitations, seasoned with gentle sprinklings of sea-fresh water medallions, with subtle acidic undertones. Spicy.

Wednesday


Select farm-fresh rays of sunshine marinated in a rich blend of solar dust with a mild ocean essence. Sprinkled with crisp, stuffed clouds, on a bed of exhaust-infused air.

Thursday


Rich and seasonal precipitation nuggets on a bed of hair and clothing, lightly drizzled with light drizzle. Followed with your choice of climate-controlled indoor setting, or same. Healthy Choice.

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The Natural History of the Mustache

By: Ed Page

You may not be aware of it — it didn’t get a lot of press, for some reason — but last week marked an important historical anniversary: exactly one billion years ago last Thursday, the world’s first mustache crawled up out of the primordial sea onto dry land. Of course, a billion years ago, there were no paparazzi on the shore with popping flashbulbs; no one set off any fireworks to mark the occasion; there were no tickertape parades. Yet the significance of that event was astronomical, for it would forever change the face of mankind.

The face of mankind, however, did not yet exist. Humans wouldn’t arrive on the planet for hundreds of millions of years. The mustache would have to wait.

While it waited, it multiplied. After only a few million years, the mustache population had grown to an alarming size. There were now more mustaches on earth than any other form of facial hair, including the eyebrow. Traveling in great herds consisting of several thousand individuals, the mustaches would sweep across the ancient African plain, leaving in their wake a trail of destruction several miles wide. Any animal that lay in their path was enveloped in a veil of murderous whiskers. They could skeletonize a brontosaurus in a matter of minutes. Even the mighty Tyrannosaurus rex — king of the dinosaurs — would avoid a mustache encounter at any cost. Known as the Mustacheoic era, this was the mustache’s golden age. Never again would it exist in such great numbers. Never again would it command such respect.

The seeds of the mustache’s downfall were sown by its very success. They were such proficient hunters, they would often kill far more than they needed, and rather than waste food, the mustaches gorged. As time went on, they grew increasingly fat, until most were as big as haystacks. Their excess pounds slowed them so much, they could barely hunt. No longer the swift and deadly creatures they once were, they now proved easy targets for the very predators that had once fled from them in mortal panic. Soon the plains were littered with the bodies of dead mustaches. Blood flowed in a million scarlet streams. It soaked into the earth, transforming the plains into a crimson landscape straight out of Hell. The mustache plunged toward extinction.

This was the mustache’s darkest hour. It was an hour that would last three million years. During this time, the mustache population was so small, it left no evidence that it even existed. No mustache fossil dating from this period has ever been found and, consequently, almost nothing is known about the mustache’s day-to-day life during these years. What did it eat? Where did it live? Did it interbreed with sideburns? The answers to these questions and to others like them are forever hidden behind a thick wall of impenetrable mystery.

As the Ice Age began, the mustache reëmerged on a grand scale. It is one of the greatest recoveries in the history of the natural world. Suddenly, the mustache was everywhere. Seemingly overnight, its population had soared to heights rivaling those of the Mustacheoic era.

What had caused such a dramatic resurgence? It is a question that once baffled the world’s greatest minds. Freud had hypothesized a decade-long orgy, while Einstein pointed to a newly evolved strain of huckleberry. Both, it turned out, were monumentally wrong.

In 1961, two French scientists, while looking for a lost Frisbee in a snowbank in northern Siberia, stumbled upon a startling discovery: lying just beneath the snow was an almost perfectly preserved woolly mammoth. They never found their Frisbee, but their mammoth would soon stun the world.

On close inspection, the mammoth’s woolly coat was discovered to be composed entirely of mustaches. In a mutually beneficial arrangement, the mustaches had insulated the mammoths from the severe cold, and the mammoths, in turn, had provided the mustaches not only with warmth and transportation, but also with sustenance: for the mustaches would feed on the mammoths’ blood. News that the mammoth was actually a pink and hairless species rocked the scientific world. But even more shocking was the news that the once-noble mustache had become a lowly parasite. Riots broke out around the globe.

After several days, the riots died down, but anti-mustache sentiment persisted everywhere. The leading scientific journals published articles vilifying the mustache for driving the beloved mammoth to extinction. Angry mobs set out into the wilderness seeking vengeance. When they found a mustache, they shot it execution-style, then burnt the corpse to cinders.

Nearly a year after the initial riots, it was reported on the front page of the New York Times that the world’s last mustache had been killed earlier that morning. The news kicked off a global celebration that lasted for weeks.

Merrymakers around the world would have been surprised to learn that, despite everything, the mustache was far from extinct. But it was true: Millions of mustaches were alive and well, hiding in plain sight, right under their very noses.

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Executive Insults

By: Neil Pasricha

Wow, that’s a nice painting you’ve got in your office, Miller. I think I saw the same one down by the urinals at the Bowlerama.

No, no, no. Don’t worry, Cindy. This is great takeout you got for our team meeting. And I’m sure it looked good, too. (Pause.) You know, before someone sat on it. (Longer pause.) And haphazardly tossed salad dressing over it all. (Even longer pause.) And burnt it.

So, Thompson. Where’d you learn to erase a whiteboard? The School of Slow, Small Concentric Circles That Never Touch the Corners?

I was impressed by your e-mail, Henderson. You spelled two words correctly, which I believe is a new personal best. Congratulations!

Nice double Windsor you got there, Miller. By the way, I was completely lying. That is a horrible double Windsor you got there, Miller.

No, Tony, I wouldn’t say your voice-mail message is the longest and most convoluted I’ve ever heard, no. I wouldn’t say that. What I would say, however, is that your voice-mail message is not as unlong and nonconvoluted as anyone else’s ever.

Hey, Keri, do you know how to fix the photocopier? I hope so, because you broke it.

(Holds hand up for a high-five with raised eyebrows and an open mouth, then moves it away at the last second.)

Yeah, well, guess what, Steve? The mailroom called. And they want YOU back! (Picks up a piece of mail and casually tosses it on the floor.) Oh, whoops. (Making a mock-concerned face.) Can you get that, Steve?

Hey, that’s a really nice suitcase you got there, Miller. Oh…I’m sorry…incredibly outdated cell phone.

I’m sorry if I gave you that impression, Cindy. It’s not that I hate Take Your Kids to Work Day. It’s that I hate your kids.

How’d you do on your performance evaluation, Judy? Did they overlook your complete incompetence again?

I got to hand it to you, Miller. And by “it” I mean this pink slip. Oh, by the way, the Bowlerama called. They want their painting back.

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Tips On Crime Prevention

By: J. Pinkerton

Minimize the amount of money and credit cards that you carry with you on a daily basis to avoid theft. In the event that you need money or credit cards, steal them.

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When being robbed, remain as calm as possible. Don’t make any quick or sudden movements. Often the criminal is as scared and nervous as you. Remember: over 45 percent of first-time robbers are bears.

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Always carry some form of identification. A label in your clothing will help police to identify your severely mangled, repeatedly penetrated corpse in the event that you are severely mangled then repeatedly penetrated by an attacker.

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A bag that dangles from the shoulder can be easily yanked off your shoulder by someone coming up from behind. Glue all belongings to your face and body with fast-binding adhesive.

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While enjoying a walk in a city park, take care to avoid hilly and steep paths. If you should fall and roll down a hill, thieves may rob you on the way down, and you will be powerless to stop them.

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Closely supervise your children when they play in public areas. If you spot them being robbed, run as quickly as you can to the parking lot and lock your belongings in your car. Do not remove them until the robber has finished robbing your children and is safely on his way.

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Weld your garage door shut at night to prevent car theft. In the morning, drive through the garage door at full speed, immediately dispatching any burglars attempting to break in from the other side.

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Stay on well-lit, populated streets at all times. It is a well-known fact that thieves will never attempt to rob you in crowded, distracting areas with the harsh glare of the sun in your eyes.

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When explaining the details of a crime to authorities, be sure to omit certain details while inventing others. Tactics like this keep the instincts of our city’s fine detectives honed and whip-sharp, where they need to be.

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Should someone attempt to verbally harass you, continue walking and ignore them. Responding to this kind of behavior will only escalate the situation. Instead, follow them home at a discreet distance. When they fall asleep, kill them.

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Carry large sums of cash on your person at all times. Displays of wealth make robbers feel too depressed about their own state in life to rob you.

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Never leave luggage or other expensive items unattended at airports or taxi stands. When extinguishing a cigarette in a designated airport smoking area, take care not to leave any Rolex watches in the ashtray by accident. Never carry your wallet in your rear pants pocket. This makes your butt look fat. Instead, keep your wallet out at all times, “fanning” your money outwards in a Ted DiBiase-like display of wealth, so that females — and not robbers — become attracted to you.

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When driving, travel on well-lighted, populated roadways whenever possible and keep the doors of the vehicle locked. Be wary of other motorists who give you vague warnings while on the road. In 78 percent of cases, this means that the stranger you are conversing with on your cell phone has a hook for a hand, and is actually in the backseat getting ready to ventilate your skull. The other motorists aren’t harassing you — they have been trying to warn you, all along.

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A Bare Bodkin, Or: One Lunch, Naked, To Go

By: Kurt Luchs

Once in a millennium, it is an editor’s sacred privilege to play midwife to a writer of earthshaking significance and eye-rolling originality. Unfortunately, that hasn’t happened to us yet, but until it does we are honored to introduce our readers to Richard Bodkin, or “the San Francisco Earthquake,” as he is known to intimates. Mr. Bodkin, our readers; readers, Mr. Bodkin.

For years, Mr. Bodkin has been jotting down odd thoughts at odd moments, using dinner napkins and playing cards for stationery, and then stuffing the scraps into his hatband and losing the hat. Such retiring habits are no boon in the rough-and-tumble arena of literary backslapping and backbiting. Bodkin has never sought after eminence; nor, up to now, has it shown any interest in him.

We hope to change all that. Below are printed, for the first time anywhere, the collected works of Richard Bodkin. Spanning the years 1944 to 1990 (“the prolific period”), they readily demonstrate why Robinson Jeffers referred to Bodkin as “that fat, slobbering stinkbug,” and why T.S. Eliot, upon meeting Bodkin for the first time, felt it was an act of simple Christian charity to smother him with a pillow. Luckily for Bodkin, Edna St. Vincent Millay was in the room at the time. After an impassioned argument, she convinced Eliot to give her the pillow, and was attempting to smother Bodkin herself when the police raided the joint.

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The Scum Also Rises (an excerpt)

Brad sat in the only café in the little Spanish town and drank a bottle of the local wine. He did this by pouring the wine into a soiled piece of gauze and wringing out the bandage over his face, catching the drops with his tongue as they fell. The gauze had been with him in the War. It was all he had left. That and some chewing tobacco.

“This is a good café,” he said in English to the waiter, “and good wine, and I am a very good boy.” The waiter smiled that childlike Spanish smile and emptied a pot of coffee into Brad’s lap. Brad laughed bitterly at the man’s quiet courage. He had been brave once. Now he was a coward. Worse than a coward. A fool. Worse than a fool. In love.

Lady Bitcherly walked in and took the waiter in her arms and kissed him and gave him her room number, saying it loudly and slowly in Spanish. The waiter began to smile that smile again but was interrupted by Brad’s wine bottle breaking over his head.

“Good bottle, that,” said Lady Bitcherly.

“Good waiter,” said Brad. “Why the hell don’t we take him up to your room and give him what for?”

“Why the hell not?” she said. He knocked her out and began to drag them both upstairs. This is what war is like, he thought.

*****

Bodkin’s first and only novel, of course, went unpublished during his lifetime, like all of his work. Still, he had the admiration of the critics. Edmund Wilson called this manuscript “the sort of thing a carnival pinhead might produce after drinking a gallon of rotgut and spending a weekend on a tilt-a-whirl.” It was praise like this that kept Bodkin writing until he was struck down several years ago by a trolley car going uphill. He wasn’t killed immediately, although the conductor went back over him several times to make sure. He was taken to a trauma center by a squad car, and pronounced dead on arrival by the doctor.

“No, I’m not,” he said weakly.

“We’ll soon take care of that,” replied the doctor, at heart a kind man who couldn’t stand the sight of suffering. He administered a dose of strychnine to Bodkin and waited for the results. Bodkin asked for a sheet of paper and a pencil, and in a few moments had composed his only known book of poetry, To Hell in a Handbasket.

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A Poem

I think that I shall never see

A thing as lovely as me.

This somewhat stilted poem was Bodkin’s first attempt at verse, and as such is understandably traditional in its rhyme scheme. In his later poems (about three minutes later) Bodkin abandoned rhyme for a verse structure so free as to be promiscuous. As Robert Frost once said of Bodkin’s prose works, “If Bodkin’s blood could but be spilled/And his mewling forever stilled!” This heartfelt comment applies equally to Bodkin’s verse output.

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Another Poem

Ha ha! Fooled you, didn’t I?

Bodkin rarely showed his sense of humor, and the above poem reveals why. In it, Bodkin anticipated the Beatnik writers, but in typical fashion he was 35 years too late. Because of this literary historians seldom class him with the Beats, and he is most often classed with the nematodes (in the words of Daniel Webster, “any of a class or phylum of elongated cylindrical worms parasitic in animals or plants or free-living in soil or water”).

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Yet Another Poem

This time I’m going to write one if it kills m–

Of this last of Bodkin’s works, what can be said? Sic transit gloria mundi.

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Yule Blog

By: Dan Fiorella

December 13

The elves have been whining about getting cable installed. What’s the big deal about cable? Sure, reception is improved, but it goes out all the time. And how many times can you watch Weekend at Bernie’s? The man’s dead. Those sunglasses aren’t fooling anyone. Either way, I ain’t springing for anything unless those tiny bums finish wrapping presents.

December 14

Reindeer have some virus and have been sleeping a lot lately. Mrs. Claus mixed some orange rinds and a handful of old echinacea capsules into their slop trough this morning, so I’m hoping that’ll help a bit. Donner’s been complaining of stomach pains too, but I told him to shut up or go try finding work elsewhere. If he thinks there’s a lot of jobs posted on Monster.com for flying reindeer with stomach pains that whiney fur bag has another think coming.

December 15

Guess what? It’s Geraldo at the door again. He’s trying to prove that I run some kind of polar sweatshop violating child-labor laws. I tried to explain that the elves are, like, 120 years old and haven’t been children since Geraldo himself was the son of a wee sperm in his great granddaddy’s testicles. No good. He called his studio truck over to our front door and I had to get Dancer and Blitzen to charge him. Who’s gonna buy his story now? Yeah right, Santa Claus himself beat up, Geraldo? No one’s buying, Gerry. Don’t even try it.

December 16

Those damn coal miners have jacked up the price of coal again. They do this every year. And they have me over a barrel. They know that there are more bad kids then ever. Any foul-mouthed little puke with their hair dyed like Eminem is getting an extra lump.

December 17

Got another of those heart-wrenching letters from a poor child: “…you don’t have to get me anything Santa, but could you get my mom a warm coat?” Sure, kid. Like you aren’t just playing the good-kid card to score yourself an XBOX. What, do people everywhere think I’m an idiot now? I’ve been around for thousands of years and the tricks never change. Santa ain’t buying, Timmy. You want a warm coat? Sell your body.

December 18

Got drunk on rum and eggnog and passed out watching Seattle’s Santa Claus parade. And let me tell you, man, that is one sorry Santa Claus parade.

December 19

I have to get the freakin’ ASPCA off my back. They just sent me another letter asking about the conditions for the reindeer, claiming I’m cruel to them by underfeeding. Hey, ASPCA! You think fat reindeer can get off the ground? They can’t, and you better believe me, because I’m the only person in the entire world who owns any flying reindeer. The thinner they are, the better they fly. If your kids want any presents this year, ASPCA, you’ll shut up. Just shut up, ASPCA!

December 20

Woke up with a bad hangover. I smacked the elves around a bit in the shop, had my way with Mrs. Claus. Then we passed out while watching Scrooged. That Bill Murray cracks me right up.

December 21

Guess what I did today? It’s funny. I always do this. I went down to the kitchen pantry to grab some shortbread cookies and guess what I find? You know it. My lousy Advent calendar. Scarfed 21 chocolates and fell asleep in front of the fireplace.

December 22

Watched A Christmas Story again. Man, the Ralphie kid cracks me up. I wonder what ever happened to him? I should check my list to see. Actually…yeah, actually, forget it. Who cares about Ralphie? What was I even thinking? Now…I do believe there’s an Advent-calendar chocolate waiting for me by the fireplace. To the fireplace!

December 23

Today Mrs. Claus and I did our last-minute shopping. The elves can hammer a mean rocking horse, but they ain’t so good at creating Palm Pilots from scratch. Note to everyone who wanted a Palm Pilot for Christmas this year: You’re all godforsaken, Star Trek-convention-haunting nitwits.

December 24

Well, I’m off, to hell with no-fly zones. Donner’s stomach pains miraculously disappeared today, and the elves finished up everything at the last minute. Well, mostly everything. Hope you weren’t expecting much, Nigeria!

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The Virginia Monologues

By: Dan Fiorella

Last night I attended the opening of a Yuletide play that is both powerful and provocative. This show is destined to be an annual holiday classic. It is The Virginia Monologues, by Mary Xmas.

The stage opens, bare, save for the three actresses seated on wooden stools. Ah, but what each does with her stool. The lead actress, Ginny O’Hanlon, begins the evening telling us what Christmas means to her: “I believe in Santa. No one else will. But I envision him on my roof. Making his way to my chimney. Slowly, tentatively, he enters. The prancing, the pawing. Yes, come down my chimney, Santa, come!” And this goes on for another 17 minutes. The female-centric play will take your notions of Christmas and knock them around like a piñata in a hammer factory.

One can only cry out “You go, sister!” when Donna Cannelloni takes center stage, stating, “I will kowtow to the public norms no more. I will reclaim my Claus. Take back my Claus from the commercialism, the garishness. My beloved bearded Claus. Claus. Claus. Claus! How I long for your lap.” Intensity has never felt so intense.

Once you get over the shock, the wincing is hardly noticeable, though my mom did say, “I can’t believe they allow people to say that kind of stuff in public.” These two actresses, along with their co-star, Norma Moldanado, display the breadth and depth of the female views of the holiday. It’s Ms. Maldanodo’s turn to rivet the audience when she takes center stage, proclaiming, “Naughty or nice? Who are you to judge? Who are you to judge me? You say you’re a saint, yet you break into my home and go through my things. Then, placing a practiced finger aside your nose, you once again pass through my flue.” As directed by Martina Beardson and choreographed by Ellen Eager, the performance pieces are a symphony of language, crescendos of passion and mistletoe.

This is a show in touch with itself. And it touches itself repeatedly. Especially in the third act. They mimic the concept of the tribal tales, with each actress waiting her turn to speak, left seated in the dark until she is handed the “Christmas Spirit” stick which gives her the floor. The stick is made to look like a giant candy cane, enhancing the holiday spirit of the evening.

The women are in fine voice as they expose the genre biases of the season. As Ms. O’Hanlon reminds us, “Christmas ‘carol.’ Christmas ‘Eve.’ Joy. Noel. Holly. So much exploitation of women. A birth celebrated. A woman’s job now controlled by the male-dominated society. How typical.”

The Virginia Monologues is now open for its annual run. And run you will. It’s a play that will have you on your feet shouting, “Lighten up, already!” Playing at the Indulgent Theatre — that’s theater with an “r-e,” so you know it’s classy.

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Kevin K.’s Halloween Story: A Literary Analysis Of A Found Document

By: Mollie Wilson

Lying where it fell outside the elementary-school door, the worksheet looked juvenile enough — it was crossed by even, far-apart lines (designed for pre-cursive printing) and bordered by smiling spiders. One of the spiders had been scribbled over with an orange crayon, which added just enough color to give the paper an authentic Halloween look. The other spider was left naked: black and white.

The words on the page were what grabbed me. Instructed only to “write a Halloween story,” young author Kevin K. had printed, in blunt number two pencil, a gripping masterpiece of brevity and horror:

“One there was a Vampaimer that came to poelpes houses and there was a littel boy his mom tuun off the light but the vampamer came in his room he took the littel boy haet. The vampame went to the next the littel girl got into a pot of fire the Vampamer lagh Ha Ha Ha the girl died.”

What a find for a literary critic! In our electronic age, such breathtaking, Joycean creativity is seldom seen in handwritten manuscript form. I was instantly impressed with Kevin’s choice of a stock Halloween character, the vampire, to be his villain (or hero?), and how he subverted the obviousness of this choice by consistently altering the spelling. How fresh a familiar figure seems when our expectations are challenged! What does the added letter “M” do to our fear? And how do we cope with the shifting reality of “Vampaimer / vampamer / vampame / Vampamer”?

This, of course, is only the most basic of Kevin’s innovations. The scene in which the “littel boy” (a figure of the author?) is abandoned by his mother is a heart-wrenching echo of the universal experience of childhood. The mother knows nothing of the threat. The boy does not cry out. The Vampaimer is not held at bay. He enters, welcomed by the darkness, bringing, perhaps, enlightenment. “He took the littel boy haet,” Kevin writes, using an Old English, Beowulfian vowel combination to invoke his story’s profoundly traditional roots. Is it an accident that “haet” is an anagram of “heat”? It is, in fact, a clue to the climax of the story, grim foreshadowing hidden in an enigmatic sentence. We are left wondering what exactly the vampamer did to the littel boy — and as Kevin knows, the soul of terror lies in the unknown.

The story’s pacing as it builds to its climax is flawless. Kevin’s transitional sentence, “The vampame went to the next,” dangles like an inhaled breath cut off before it can manifest itself as a scream. Even the word “vampamer” has been truncated, almost carelessly (but with what care!), by a mere letter and yet by an entire syllable. At the eleventh hour, Kevin introduces a new character — or is it an old one? Is the littel girl just the littel boy’s mom, seen through different eyes? Or is it the littel boy himself, emasculated by his encounter with fear? (What exactly has the vampame done to the boy he “took haet”?) The littel girl, whatever her origin, does not wait to be acted upon. She “[gets] into a pot of fire” under her own terrible agency, thereby embracing illumination and reversing the initial act of the anti-Promethean mother who tried to extinguish the light.

The stark, existential ending of Kevin’s story is shocking, even haunting, in its cruelty. “The Vampamer lagh Ha Ha Ha the girl died.” There is no rescue for the girl. We have not yet learned to love her when she is stolen from us. The capital letters spike violently into space, towering over a chaotic, unpunctuated world.

Kevin K’s work is a prose poem of disturbing, exhilarating insight. No other Halloween coming-of-age tale has ever explored such explosively iconoclastic territory. My attempts to track down the author have been unsuccessful. For weeks I sat outside the school each afternoon, awaiting the final bell, but none of the children who poured through the doors bore any visible mark of genius, and the parents I questioned were brusque and unhelpful. The fliers I posted on the playground (“Don’t hide from your genius, Kevin K.! Let me understand you!” followed by my contact information) were torn down within hours — by the reclusive author himself? A jealous classmate? So I can do nothing but look forward to reading more, and hope that this exciting young writer drops another worksheet soon.

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