Christmas Stalking Showdown

Once again I did not get what I wanted for Christmas and it makes me cranky. Every year since I was a kid I have waited up late to try and catch Santa breaking and entering and once again he somehow gets by my defenses. Don’t get me wrong, I love almost everything he and the reindeer leave (except for those raisins on the roof), but it bugs me that no matter what macho thing I do he still gives me the slip (a frilly one from Victoria Secret).

I’m not sure what Santa has to fear from me other than I resemble Rudolph’s pal, the Bumble – except I’m a bit harrier and still have a few of my own teeth left. Oh he is probably just bitter because I refuse to let one of his creepy mini-minions, the elf on the shelf, stare at me all night while I sleep. Geez have a heart Santa, I already fend off spiders, mice, and bed bugs, around this dump – so is it any surprise I want to extend a middle digit to one of your little midget’s too?

Is it too much to ask that the graying fat man in the red and white jammies, other than me, use the back door without ringing the bell, just like the rest of my hillbilly clan-family. This year, simply so there won't be any mistakes, I even stuffed foam up my chimney to keep the chill out; and let me tell you that’s a lot more challenging than those thin thermometers. Yes I was really prepared this holiday with candy cane cameras, bright landing lights, and even a few cookie-claymore trip lines to give St. Nick  a sign it’s the right time to finally face ME - the grim wreather.

At this point I am starting to doubt if there is, or ever was a REAL Santa at all. I have actually been to the North Pole but I never saw a red-striped, bearded benefactor there or at any of the other three spikes which hold up my tent. Maybe all this seasonal stewing n’ stalking I am doing of St. Nick is a waste of time? Clearly I need to give up on hunting down Santa and his elusive elves and just concentrate on something far easier to swallow like the ‘Fountain of VERMOUTH’!

Color Me Crusty

Maybe it has always been this way but am I the only one who sees the world through rose and green colored 3D glasses around the last quarter of the year? The truth is that as of late even orange and black Halloween is also getting flocked and being horned in on by rutting Rudolph and his deer friends. Thank goodness Valentine’s red letter day and the white, red n’ Independence blue have stayed true and somehow have avoided being elf-hijacked too.

Yes, apparently now Christmas is not just one day of the year but in fact extends its over-ripe aroma to all of Fall and hangs around a little too long like that last plate of dark-meat leftovers from Thanksgiving. No just because I set a few mousetraps in the attic around the gold garland and stored ornamental rainbow balls doesn’t mean I’m the pied piper of gripey Grinches at all. But honestly, what other holiday totally consumes white light to make life costlier, less productive and an even deeper black hole than it already is?

I don’t see Chanukah getting in my way too much, but  then again even if I were Jewish the wife would never allow a cold gassy giant like me to bounce around next to a bunch of lit candles in a tattered flannel t-shirt. Ol’ Cinco de Mayo and Groundhog’s day don’t ordinarily tax too much of my tiny brain twists either, though inexplicably now I am hungry for five pork sandwiches. The outlier eggy Easter tries to rudely intrude Spring with its funny bunnies, fuzzy ducks, and PEEPing treats too. But in the end with only a month of brown choco hype n’ hubbub to last, even a Winter wonderland whiner like me can frown, bear it, and stand fast.  

Actually I think most of my crusty Christmas recriminations have more to do with my personal geezer leanings rather than society’s oblivious overreach toward an overbearing holiday marketing niche. After all even this Scrooge still gets sucked up by Santa’s jolly jingle and rebuff of we - the far less jovial. It’s just when your hair and skin begins to turn pasty-white like Frosty’s filling, elderly life turns exceedingly telling. Especially so when you’re constantly reminded for months on end that you now need those colorful candy canes for walking rather than to eat as oh so sweet treats!

Dried-Up Dude

While it’s true, similar to a snail, I always used to leave some kind of wet trail behind me particularly when I traverse the hallowed and much traveled ground between kitchen and latrine. But recently I have noticed as I age my skin is less malleable, my remaining hair’s less greasy, and I only break out in a real sweat when the candy dish runs low. Dried Prune analogies aside, I am concerned that all that dust in this dump is coming from the sands of time which seem to be tending toward gale force rather than a gentle breeze.

A case in point is once per annum I do a self-administered blood test to show the health insurance overlords that I am worthy of another year of earth time as long as I pay their insane policy ransom. I dread this test of the red not because I have to drain a vein for a plasma big screening, but mostly due to the fact that I can’t pump enough iron no matter what I do. I shake my hands, soak them in hot water, jump and run to get my jumbo juices flowing yet you guessed it - another year, another bloodless coup! 

Yes, after I exhaust the hygienic lances to pop a droplet of vampire vintage, I end up resorting to whatever dull paint-scraping X-acto blade I have laying around to keep the trickle tap leaking weakly. Despite my daily disguise as a big SAP, sadly if Mrs. Butterworth ever called me out for inspection she’d know I’m at least a quart low of sweet sanguine syrup and label me incapable as a maple tree. The good news is that usually only my pride suffers wounding, so rarely am I in need of first-aid staples like Band-Aids n’ gauze to shut-up my flaws, and tax my lack of liquidity.

When penning ‘In Cold Blood’ clearly white-clad n’ pasty faced Capote was referring to the missing Elmer’s glue-goo that spewed through his veins and the powdered rust of my own feckless circulatory system. Ahh that probably explains why I break for the buffet so often since all that grabbing n’ chewing keeps me warm, my platelets full, and If nothing else a chance to slather up in the butter trough to moisturize my dry hide. Who knows maybe at the dessert bar both Ben and Jerry can shun traditional dairy, and try to rehydrate my essence from top to Phlebotomist to transfUSE me as inspiration for their next flavor sensation - ‘Macabre Clotted Cream-o-globin’!

SOUPer FAN

Next to bread and water my favorite meal consists of plain ol’ soup. Almost any flavor is fine, just keep the fish heads to yourself and don’t be stingy with the salt, pepper, and a silver spoon the size of your head. The slop does not have to be fancy with discernible chunks of gunk – it just has to be hot and viscous enough to float a flotilla of saltines on the top.

Oh I know the chefy snobs want their icy vichyssoise but real tureen fiends like me demand the stock steaming and ready to scald bald on crispy cold days. Don’t expect stars to sparkle in my eyes if you dump some pee-wee pot on the tabletop either, especially if you begin to ladle my lunch with the little dipper. Nope, like my gut and the back half of my pants I need my bowls BIG, soundly round, and filled bountifully brim-high.

Even the condensed goo is ok too since it easily can be transformed into liquid-love with some fresh flow fondling from the H20 and a wittle wobble of the stove-top ’s knoble. So save your stacks of cash and leave that stinky brash stash of aged cheese add-ins and girly parsley garnish garrisoned in the fridge.  Ditto for the ice box locked jug of cow and its caloric yet even creamier Half & Half brother, ‘cause all I want my soup’s toes to dip into is a little hot water.

Yes most kitchen-istas will detest my palate’s sad lack of sophistication around the pot but I argue, that is usually a GOOD thing when plumbing’s involved. I admit my tasty buds tend toward the regular rather than the rare when it comes to my plain Jane soup du pure tastes. One way or another I must be some kind of a super fan for sure because when it comes to soup I’m a crusty old scab who isn’t all that picky . . . and oh yeah, I blow a lot of hot air!

Real Turkey Stuffing

Despite my body shape resembling that big buttered namesake bird itself and that Thanksgiving happens to be one of my favorite holidays, I still approach the traditional fam-feasting with a little consternation.  Sure the travel is a pain and all bets are off as to my belt’s last lonely sole hole will be able to cinch up the collateral damage after a 5000 calorie snack, but that too is not my biggest worry. No I sweat bullets over the really frightening reality which make stuffed ‘carUncle TOMS’ like me weak in the wattle and that’s ‘who left da’ lumps in the taters n’ gravers?’

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the occasional stray spud that missed the mixer and didn’t win the race through the ricer. I guess I can also forgive the bold, brave n’ bready chunk of gunk that stows away from the stuffing and inadvertently into my brown gravy boat of pureed pleasure.  But please don’t try to sneak in and fool me with a flotilla of stringy beans or slip in globs of greasy giblets to test my zest and goad my gag-reflex.

You see I have to always be on guard for the unexpected lascivious lump should an errant somethin’-chunk cozy up too closely to my uvula bump. Believe me nobody, not even a food sci-fi-entist wants to see a giant fat-cat sitting at the kiddy table reversing a cup of gravy’s smooth n’ true course in mid-stream. Why is it so hard to understand, like my groin I prefer my gravy strained, the jello  junk-less n’ stripped clean, and my mashies uniformly smashied, then whipped into a sublime-grind cream.  

Considering I am just lucky to be uncaged and temporarily free from the torch-waving townies, it is odd for such a persnickety and moody rude dude-y to have so many rules about delicious snood foodies. Yes I know as a bulky beggar there are definite politeness conventions to follow especially on a day where giving thanks is spelled out right in the name. So never fear, even a mouthy Meleagris like me won’t look a gift gobbler in the beak and will take my lumps quietly. After all imitation is the sincerest form of ‘Plattery’ so my turkey-neck and I will honor my big bird brethren, and all who prepare him with an appreciative 21 ‘done-button’ salute!