Rubber Ducky, I think we've gone too far.

Any Sesame Street fans in the house? Allow me to taint your wholesome memories.


Rubber Ducky (Bath Time Fun Time)

Rubber Ducky, you're the one.
You make bath time lots of fun.
Rubber Ducky, I'm awfully fond of you.

Rubber Ducky, this is new.
When I squeezed you, something grew.
Rubber Ducky, I like doing things to you.

Everyday when I make my way to the tubby,
I find a little fella who can give me a chubby.
(Rub-a-dub-a-dubby)

Rubber Ducky, this is bad.
What am I gonna tell my dad?
Rubber Ducky, I think I'm too fond of you.

Everyday when I make my way to the tubby,
I find a little fella who can give me a chubby.
(Rub-a-dub-a-dubby)

Rubber Ducky, this needs to stop.
Oh not yet, I'm going to pop.
Rubber Ducky, I got stuff all over ...
Rubber Ducky, I'd like to see more of ...
Rubber Ducky, I think I'm too fond of you.

An ode to furry men.

Yep. I dig the man fur. Sorry if it's too much info. That's what you get for reading my blog.


A Sonnet for Furry Men

When I met you, you were wearing a shirt
And I wondered what the cloth was hiding.
My curiosity caused me to flirt.
Did you have a happy trail worth riding?


After a few dinners and some dating
Curiosity took it's famous toll.
After spending all of that time waiting
Getting a hand up that shirt was my goal.


Oh my god! Hello, glorious man pelt.
How did you manage to hide under there?
You're the greatest thing I have ever felt
And furrier than a big polar bear!


Come here and hold me, sexy mountain guy.
This isn't the time for you to be shy!

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 6

Juror Number 10's ass was asleep. She had been sitting in her chair for three hours watching this literal circus of a court case. There were reindeer in the room for Pete's sake!

She readjusted her body and continued to listen to the defense's pointless arguments.

They rattled on about the vulnerability of a Window's OS. About how spyware was inevitable and how Mr. Claus had no way to completely protect his hard drive from unwarranted downloads (he shouldn't have been on the WWW in the first place!). They presented character witnesses (most of them horrible little midgets with pointed shoes and one sloshy snowmen with a pipe!) who raved about Claus and his flawless life (any man who would welcome such close genital proximity with children could not be a good man!). And they waxed poetic about how Claus gave toys to good children all over the globe.

HMMPH! Old Man Claus had NEVER EVER brought Juror Number 10 a toy while she was a child. He only left her a single, solitary lump of coal. Every year, she asked for a doll. Every year, she got coal.

And she was a good child! Just because she poured glue in Samantha Davis' backpack that one time in first grade didn't mean she was a brat. Samantha had a nicer back pack! Juror Number 10 was just evening the score. And just because she pushed little Davie Smith down the slide in second grade didn't mean she was mean. He had cut in line. How dare he get there first! And that time she threw the dozen eggs out of the shopping basket and onto the floor when she was seven, well, her mom should've gotten her the candy she wanted.

Santa Claus had obviously not taken all of the facts into consideration while making his lists. And for that, he'd spend the rest of his life in jail.

Juror Number 10 hadn't realized she was clenching her fists so hard she had damaged a nail. She relaxed her hands and watched as the jolly old elf took the stand.

He swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help him god.

The prosecution asked him how he knew when children were sleeping and how he knew when they were awake (because he's a perv!).

Santa responded, "It's because I'm magical. I just know."

The prosecution asked if Claus had kissed Mommy.

"I don't believe Ms. Claus would approve of that," he joked.

The prosecution asked if Claus was aware that entering a home during the night via chimney was legally breaking and entering.

Santa gleefully said, "But I am invited. Families even leave snacks for me. You, sir," Santa said to the judge, "used to leave me ginger cake. It was one of my favorite houses to go to."

Juror Number 10 grunted. When Santa's cross examination ended, the jurors were sent to deliberate. On the way out, Juror Number 10 took one last look at Santa. He winked at her. She quickly averted her eyes and left the room.


***

"You old battle axe!" Juror Number 5 shouted across the room. "He's clearly innocent. He's SANTA!"

"Are you mad?" Juror Number 3 asked. "Or just mean?"

"You're the only person here who thinks he's guilty," Juror number 8 said as he looked at the ground. "What did your parents do to you?"

Every other jury member was ready to vote Santa as not-guilty from the get go.

Juror Number 10 just stared at her lukewarm coffee. It looked like liquid coal. "He gives toys to children who he's never met. He's a dirty old man and he should be punished."

The debate went on for three hours with no clear end in sight. Juror Number 10 was unwavering in her decision.

"You're a loony bitch, you know that?" one of the jury members told her. She wasn't sure which one. They had all started to look and sound the same to her.

She reached into her purse for a breath mint. As she dug, she felt something unfamiliar.

"What's this?" she thought as she pulled out a little, wooden nutcracker. Juror Number 10 rotated and twisted the tiny figure in her fingers. Engraved on the bottom of it's feet was a message. "To Sandra from Santa. Have a Merry Christmas."

Juror Number 10, Sandra, felt tears well up in her eyes. A doll. Santa had magically put a little doll in her bag. Even after she had planned on voting him guilty.

"I was wrong," she whimpered to the room. Heads rose off of the table. "He's innocent."

***

Santa ran out of the court house to the sound of camera flashes and ten o'clock news reporters. The elves had the sleigh waiting for him. He hopped in and was off to the North Pole. There was just enough time to get home, load the sleigh, and do one final check (via pen and paper, NOT computer) for all of the toys before heading out for his famous flight.

I can't believe this just happened.

Readers, I'm so sorry.

I just wrote the conclusion to Santa's tale. And I lost my internet connection.

So I was trying to copy paste it into a Word doc so I could post it in the morning from work. And (since Blogspot doesn't like Macs or something) I couldn't copy it. Seriously.

So I'm screwing with my router trying to get a connection. And when I finally get it, my browser window closed. That was my fault. Cause I clicked the wrong button. 

I'm so mad at myself right now. I have to write the entire thing over again. And it was so long. I've been working on it for like 45 minutes.

UGH. Maybe I'll do it this weekend. Who knows. Geez. I'm really upset about this.

WRITING IS HARD DAMMIT!

Here are some random reasons why being an adult rocks my socks off.

I'll be darned, I'm really not wearing socks right now.

In no particular order, here are some random reasons why being an adult rocks.

* Alcohol. It's legal to drink. Sure it's fun drinking it as a teen and everything. But there's just something about bars that's way cooler than your best friend's dad's garage.

* Staying up late on weeknights. Hells to the yeah. It's 12:11 AM on a Thursday morning right now. And no one has told me to go to sleep.

* Drinking on school nights and staying up late. Double hells to the yeah. Hence why this blog is so stupid. I'm just trying to crank out something before I crash. Nothing but honesty here, folks.

* Your own refrigerator. It can be full o' goodies or it can be empty. Doesn't matter. Because it's my fridge. My dad isn't going to creep to my fridge in the middle of the night and drink my pomegranate juice. And that's awesome.

* Remote control ownership. This might be more of a I-live-alone thing. But when you're the seniority in a household, you own the TV screen. And you have the final say of what's on it. Boo-yah.

* Oodles and oodles of friends. After all, you've been collecting them your whole life. You've got dirt on them that Mr. Clean can't get rid of. The only problem - they've got even more on you.

* Alcohol. It's legal to drink ... Wait a minute!

I need a photographer.

(A blog from ten in the morning as opposed to ten at night! Loony!)

Buying presents for people is often a panic-inducing activity for me. Heck, I even wrote an ad about it a year ago.

Will he like it? Will she just return it? Will it live under a bed for years? Will it match that shirt from last year? Will it wrinkle? Will it break? Will it smell bad after a few weeks?

Buying presents just sucks. And I suck at it. So this year I had just decided to give up. Everyone gets a phone call. That's my present. Too bad I'm awkward on the phone.

But then I had an epiphany about ten minutes ago. An epiphany so strong that I felt compelled to write my blog twelve hours earlier than I normally do. Because I've discovered something that everyone can and will enjoy.

Posters. Everyone is getting a personalized poster from me.

Of me!

GENIUS!

I was perusing a you-make-it-we'll-print-it website (I'd give you the name, but then I'd want money from them and it's a bad time of year to negotiate stuff like that) when I discovered the custom, large print poster. And I thought about how awesome it would be to have a poster of me.

Seriously. I love myself.

And other people would love a poster of me, too. Think about it. It'd be like I'm there all of the time. I could live in someone's office or above a bed. On the back of a closet door or be framed over the mantle. I could be in the garage over the tool bench or hang in the bathroom.

Screw you, Extreme Tickle Me Elmo. This year's hot holiday commodity is a wall full o' me.

A four by six picture of me smiling in your wedding ain't good enough. Oh no. Twenty-three by thirty inches of Johnson goodness (snicker) is what it's all about.

But what picture to use?

Off the top of my head, nothing is seasonal enough. So I'm going to need a photographer. Perhaps a hair and makeup person, too. And someone to dress me. I do have a closet full of pretty, long dresses from other people's weddings, though, that'll look smashing. Ooh, like the black one! I could hold a red rose and be sitting on a park bench surrounded by snowmen. CUTE!

Oh, it's going to be a very merry Christmas indeed!

Be sure to send me your address so I can send you a poster. Happy holidays.

(You know I'm kidding, right?)

Let's do the alphabet!

A dog walks into a bar.

Bartender says, "Hey, you can't come in here."

Cindy, the local barfly, lifts her head at the sound of the bartender's voice.

Dog asks, "And why can't I come in here?"

"Everyone in here is wearing shoes and a shirt. You are not," the bartender tells the dog.

"Fine, I'll go get some clothes. Would that suit you?"

"Good luck finding clothes for a dog," Cindy the barfly slurred.

Heartbroken, the dog left the bar in search of a shirt and shoes.

"I'll never find something," the dog whimpered to his self.

Just as he gave up hope, he tripped over a bump in the sidewalk.

"Kibbles and bits*," the dog swore as he held onto his stumped toe.

Lying on the sidewalk was a genie lamp. It has been rubbed as the dog tripped over it.

"Mekka lekka high mekka hiny ho," the genie proclaimed as he smoked out of the lamp.

"Now," he continued, "what can I do for you?"

"OW!" The dog shouted at the genie. He could only think about his toe.

"Perhaps some clothing? I hear you can't get into a local bar." The genie smirked.

"Quite right. They won't serve me because I'm naked," the dog told his new companion.

"Right. As they shouldn't. Not wearing clothes is weird." He waved his hands and the dog was dressed in a fancy zoot suit.

"Sweet. Now I can go get a beer!"

"Tell Cindy the barfly that Peter the Genie says hi!" the genie shouted at the dog as he pranced off.

"Uh oh. It's you again," the bartender exclaimed as the dog entered.

"Voila! I'm wearing clothes! Now you must serve me!"

"Well well well. You're right. What would you like?" the bartender asked.

"XX," the dog barked. "Dos Equis and a frosted mug."

"Yes sir," the bartender said as he poured the dog a cold one.

"Zang," the dog said as he gave a thumbs up. Excellent.

* That's "oh my stars" in dog.

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 5

Instead of the usual red suit, red hat and black boots, Santa Claus was wearing an orange jumpsuit.

He sat on an old folding chair in the middle of the prison commons. A line of thieves, murderers and accountants-gone-bad snaked through the large room. At the front was a midget wearing a large sock as a hat. He led the prisoner who was first in line to Santa.

The prisoner, a drug dealer, sat upon Santa's waiting knee.

"Ohhhh," Santa grunted, "You're a big boy?"

"My mamma used to take me to see you every year, Santa," the prisoner said. "I always asked you for video games."

"Is that what you want this year?" Santa asked. He wouldn't dare ask if the prisoner had been good this year. He had already made that mistake. A prison war broke out. Lucky for Santa, the resident Mafia guy had broken it up. And then gave Santa his personal protection.

Everyone in the prison kinda liked Santa. Even despite the fact that he was accused of indecency with children.

"You're Santa Claus," the Mafia guy said to Santa. "St. Nick! There was never a dirty saint. Plus, I owe you one. You gave me my first gun when I was six."

Santa remembered it well. Little Tony had written him such a nice letter that year. And Little Tony had been so good! He always helped old women across streets and he dressed in suits. 

Santa didn't think it odd for a young boy to ask for a toy gun. The violin case to put it in, though, should've been a red flag. Santa made  a mental note to stop giving guns to boys and girls in the future. If he had a future.

***

Santa walked through the cafeteria line. He filled his plate with the sloppy potatoes and the chicken-fried chicken. The prisoner serving dessert gave him an extra cookie and a wink. Santa smiled and continued through the line.

As he walked towards a table to sit, the prisoners separated to allow him easy passage. Santa sat down and before he even picked up his fork several prisoners had brought him small cartons of milk and extra cookies.

In prison, Santa was a god. 

He filled his days with taking Christmas wish requests and watching Law & Order reruns.

Santa was hoping that he would be granted a mistrial and he would be back at the North Pole in time for his annual flight. Rumor had it that was incriminating evidence against him, but it all mattered on how the prosecutions spun it.

Santa's nights were filled with whittling wooden toys out of scraps that prisoners and guards brought him. He had made several rocking horses, a nutcracker and a small electric chair just for humor's sake.

The morning of Santa's first (and hopefully last) hearing, he had whittled a small gavel that he left behind in his cell.

There's no love for the commas.

Once upon a decade, they were plentiful. Commas were everywhere. 

As a young girl in public school, we were taught to stick commas in certain places. Almost twenty years later, I follow these same rules whenever I write. I put a comma before "and" in a list. I always stick one on the business side of "too" and "also." I would place one after "so" if it was at the beginning of a sentence.

When I started writing as a profession, I'd be very careful about grammar and punctuation. I prided myself on editors returning my scripts and copy sheets with "no changes needed" scrawled at the top. (It was like being back in school getting As!) But one day, one dark and dreary day, I got a paper back. Half of my commas had been struck through.

"But that's proper!" I'd exclaim. "That what I was taught in school."

"Rules change," I was told.

My commas, my beautiful, pause-inducing, thought-sorting commas were unloved by others. Cast off. Deemed useless, unloved, and dead. See this last sentence? That last comma apparently isn't proper anymore.

But it sits so perfectly before that conjunction.

"Deemed useless, unloved and dead" just doesn't do it. That final comma forces a pause which makes the sentence so much more powerful.

Poor commas. It's like they're becoming extinct. They're being phased out of literary existence.

I say save the commas! They're necessary! We need more commas in our print!

There are some people who use too many commas. This used to bother the crap out of me. Not that I'm perfect or anything. English is a pretty awkward language to write with all of the rules that aren't in stone, etc. But commas show pause. They give the reader a bit of a break. And they can help sort out ideas and thoughts and they just help okay so deal with it.

Who's making these decisions to change punctuation rules, anyway? Tell me who you are! I have a bone to pick with you, jerk. Why are you picking on the comma? Pick on a punctuation mark your own size. Like the exclamation point. Or the ampersand. Or the asterisk! Just leave the comma alone. It did nothing to you.

And with that, I'm going to go forth into the world with my arsenal of commas. We've got some invading to do.

Come on, boys.

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 

I'm going to improve my life! 2

I've been thinking more and more about this male dancer/soundtrack thing.

And I really think this is what I need. Except (there's always an exception) when I'm in an airport.

(Eventually, I'd be so intimidating and famous that I wouldn't be using public airports. But even I've got to admit that the days of private-jetting are at least a year away.)

My arrival at the airport would, naturally, be kick ass. Male dancers in starched uniforms would twirl and glide around as my limo pulls up. One of the dancers would open the limo door. Another would take my hand and help me to my feet.

I'd be in all black with large sunglasses on. Very somber. "She's Leaving Home" by the Beatles would be playing.

The dancers would  almost march alongside me as I make my way to the E-ticket machine. I would reach into my purse for my ID and not be able to find it. Frustrated, I drop to the floor and start throwing things out of my bag. The music would pause as I do the same. One of my dancers would see my ID on the floor and gracefully hand it to me. "Thank you," I'd mouth. I'd get my boarding pass as the music continues.

So far, everything would be working smoothly. Then dancers would have to collect their own boarding passes. 

Good thing I made millions of dollars in my last post, huh?

We'd make our way to the security line. It would be difficult for my men to dance in the cramped line. Plus the power-obsessed security guards would be getting angry. One would place a hand on his weapon.

We get to the tubs. The music is Sia's "Breath Me." Since we'd be busy taking off our shoes and watches, the song seems wasted.

Two of my dancers would forget to put their liquid items in plastic baggies. "But I need my hair gel!" one of them would whine to a security guard.

Once everything gets sorted, the metal detection, of course, would go awry. Some of my dancers would have piercings and metal knee caps. So those boys would have to be frisked.

Meanwhile, I'd be losing my graceful, weepy beauty and gaining angry, frustrated sexiness. This could be good, but the whole point of this particular flight was intriguing sadness. "This Ain't a Scene" by Fallout Boy would be appropriate. So it would play. (Yeah, it's poppy, but you know what? BLOW ME!)

I'd stomp through the terminal. My dancers would stomp and flip and jump in tow. People would stare. Who is this woman in black? they'd wonder. And is she filming a music video?

My dancers and I would find our terminal. Then we'd sit for an hour, drink a coffee and finally board the plane. It wouldn't be very exciting.

On the flight, we'd eat the peanuts and watch the crappy in-flight movie. Well, that's not all true. I'd probably watch a Batman flick and the dancers who got seats near me would peer over and watch with. (It's a requirement that my male dancers love Batman, by the way.)

We'd arrive in LA or New York and be groggy from the flight. But Oasis' "D'You Know What I Mean?" would start playing. And we'd blast out of the airplane like Mafia bosses. The wind would whip my hair around. The dancer's suit jackets would blow behind them. And we'd walk to the baggage claim where we'd wait another half hour for the suitcases.

I'm going to improve my life!

I've decided that I need two things to make my life complete.

1) A soundtrack. This will play at all times. When I'm walking down the street, pop music. When I enter a room, horns and trumpets. When I say something witty, laughter. Everything I do, every emotion I convey will be enhanced with an appropriate sound effect or musical score.

2) Male backup dancers. They will tumble alongside me as I strut. Their purpose isn't to overshadow me, but to draw attention to my supreme awesomeness. Having small, tight-bodied (and possibly shirtless) male dancers surrounding me at all times is better than having an announcer.

Picture this. You're sitting in some intimidating meeting room in some fancy-pants highrise building in a bustling metropolis. There's a twenty-foot long, oak table. There's a wall of windows that overlook the streets below. There's one of those Star-Trek-looking phones.

At every one of the thirty chairs sits a suited older man. Each one has been waiting for ten minutes. That act alone has cost some public company at least ten thousand dollars.

This is the scariest room in the United States. This is where people wish for death at the feet of corporate America.

And then suddenly the lights flash. There's something invading the ambient noise of the room. The noise grows louder.

"Is that ..." one of the men says. But he never finishes his question. Because the large, double doors are thrown open as Europe's "The Final Countdown" blares into the room. Then, strapping young men run in doing back flips and front flips and jumping on the table.

Papers fly into the air as the evil business men stare at the scene in total shock.

The music crescendos. The men lithely line up at either side of the doors. And I enter wearing my jeans and some snarky T-shirt. I strut to the middle of the meanest men in the room. I throw a folder onto the table.

"Here's your ad campaign, gentlemen. Changes won't be necessary. You'll accept it as is. It'll cost you millions. It's been a pleasure doing business with you." And then I leave. The music and the dancers follow.

The business men just sit there for minutes. Then one of them punches a button on the phone. "Wanda," he says, "I need the checkbook."

Every sentence has five words.

We're not counting syllables here. We are only counting words. And every sentence has five.

Why five words, you ask. Well, the answer is simple. I had no other ideas. It was classic writer's block.

It doesn't happen too often. But sometimes, I go blank. Even I have my moments. (Should "I" be one word? After all, it's a letter. Oh, well, I'm being silly.)

This blog is writing itself. The sign of good ideas. All good ideas fill out. They need no writer's help. Kind of like good ads. You only need just one. The rest all write themselves.

Any good writer knows this. (I consider myself pretty good.)And we feel like hacks. Quentin Tarantino said that once. (Did I spell that correctly?) It was about a scene. He said it wrote itself. He felt guilty for it. What movie was it again? I seem to have forgotten. I don't think "Pulp Fiction." Oh, wait, maybe it was. The "royal with cheese" scene? I really can't remember it. 

I should write a movie. What would it be about? Maybe panda bears and toads. They'd live in harmony together. They could chew on bamboo. They'd give warts to children. And fun times would follow.

Speaking of fun times, yawn. It's sleepy time for me. So I'm gonna sign off.

Have sweet dreams, dear reader.

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 4

Mrs. Claus had finally settled down and Santa was finally allowed back onto his computer. It was sometime in mid-December.

Usually by this time the elves and Santa were completely through with making toys and trinkets and they spent their time wrapping gifts.

But with the computer complications (and the being grounded by his wife), Santa was a few days behind.

So he worked some major overtime and was finally catching up when there was a knock on his door.

"Mormons," Santa grumbled. "Dear, would you get that?"

The front door opened, Santa heard Mrs. Claus conversing with a man or two, then footsteps. They grew louder until they were behind Santa.

"Are you Santa Clause?" A man's voice asked harshly. "AKA Christopher Kringle?"

Santa spun his chair around to face two older men in cheap suits. "Most people just call me Santa."

"Well then, Santa, we need your computer," the balding man said.

"And we need you to come with us," his hairier cohort added.

There was a confused moment of silence while the jolly old elf and the two cops stared at one another. Then Ms. Claus entered the room. "What is this?"

The bald man, obviously the more senior of the two cops, answered first. "Your husband, ma'am, is under arrest for child indecency."

"We have proof that he's been conversing with minors via the internet," the other cop hissed. "Little girls and boys."

Santa gaped. "That's my job. I'm Santa!"

The bald man grabbed Santa's arm and turned him around. "It's best not to fight, Claus."

Mrs. Claus started to sob. "Just do what they say. Be good for goodness sake!"

A few moments later, nine reindeer and thirty elves lined the snowy path in front of the North Pole cottage as a cuffed Santa Claus was placed in the back of a squad car.

***

Beware o' the Bacon Monster who lives in your fridge.

When you find your milk has gone sour, that was the Bacon Monster.

When you see your pasta sauce has grown hair, it's cause of the Bacon Monster.

When your eggs take a sudden turn from good to bad, blame the Bacon Monster.

If there's anything in the fridge, teetering on the edge of spoilage, it's in the sights of the Bacon Monster. He just can't resist spoiling food.

The Bacon Monster used to be the Bacon Man. He was just as he sounded- a little man made of bacon who lived in the fridge. His job was to turn on the light when the door was shut. He was made out of bacon so he could go about his business unnoticed. After all, most logical people would freak out if there were a little man living in the fridge.

But there was a flaw in his design. Meat spoils. Especially bacon.

So after some time, the Bacon Man became the Bacon Monster. He became spoiled and mischievous. At first, he would just move things around in the fridge with the goal of confusion. Then he'd open packages and loosen jar lids. His goal was to create spills and other messes. But the Bacon Monster noticed that some foods would go bad.

And he felt that all food should spoil. Just like he had so long ago.

When foods became full of preservatives, he had to work overtime to ruin them. He'd dance on pies and leftovers only to run across butter later. You might have witnessed his track marks. They look like knife and fork imprints full of crumbs.

He loves swimming in orange juice. Usually after he's punched holes in your fruit.

And his most favorite thing is squeezing bottles of ketchup and mustard just enough to create a gooey mess under the cap.

So if you see odd spots in your fridge, or you notice that food isn't lasting as long as it should, beware. There just might be a Bacon Monster living in your fridge.

Happy 50th blog! It's nothing special!

Haikus About the Winter Holidays


Oh Christmas Tree, oh
Christmas Tree, how lovely are
your branches. Today.


Jews have Hannakuh.
How do you spell Channakuh?
AHH! Too many ways!


Have you heard the rap song
Written by Dr. Dreidel?
"Made outta clay, bitch!"


My snowman melted.
I was just drying his hair
With a blow dryer.


Frosty the Snowman
Was a jolly happy soul
Until the spring came.


When I was little
He knew when I was sleeping.
Santa was creepy.


Cats climb Christmas trees.
Dogs sleep under Christmas trees.
Squirrels? They poo in 'em.


It is time to feast.
The holidays mean eating.
Wasn't that last month?


"Going to lose weight.
Your new year's resolution.
Ha! Good luck, fatty!


Dad, for my present,
No joke, I would like to have
Piano lessons.


If no piano,
Because you think I'm too old,
Can I have sneakers?


Wreaths on car bumpers
Look really really stupid.
I will kick your wreath.


That's alot of stuff.
That house looks like Las Vegas.
Electric bill death.


Holiday cookies
Enhanced with herby goodness
Will make X-Mas bright!


Frankincense and myrrh?
Wise Men, heard of Target?
Apparently not.


Ebenezer Scrooge
Was a selfish crabby dude.
With a sweet top hat.


I've been good all year.
So that I can hunt for eggs.
Oh wait. That's Easter.


Happy holidays.
Whichever one you prefer.
(But Christmas is best!)

I'm not going to make it to June of '08.

Dear Batman,

It's me again. I just wanted to let you know how excited I am for "the Dark Knight" to open in theatres. I hear you're pretty tight with the director and studio, so could you maybe ask them to release it early? You know, get the editing and stuff done like, oh, next week?

Because I can't breath. I need to see this movie. The comic books and the teasers online aren't enough. I want to see in your batty goodness on screen. In full color. At the IMAX.

(I'm not even sure what IMAX is. I know the screen is taller than it is wide. Why this is so awesome, I don't know. I guess it's like a portrait photo vs. a landscape photo. And the negative is really big so the picture is super sweet. But couldn't they make a really big negative that's horizontal? I mean they (proverbial they) have been selling us on wide screens forever and now IMAX is doing the opposite. And then saying it's better! Just seems weird. But as long as I get to see you kick some serious ass, I could care less about the format.)

And the Joker! I've always had an uneasiness about clowns. They're just creepy. But there's something about that Joker. He's just so ...

... evil.

He's a complete sociopath. But he's a genius! I read today about the opening scene where he's revealed and, well, I got that funny feeling that I used to get climbing the rope in gym class.*

I can't wait to see you two play cat and mouse. Will he outsmart you? Will you leave me rolling on the ground, unsatisfied, begging for a third flick?

Are you going to punish me?

I think we need to meet for coffee, Batman. So we can discuss this in person. And I can get your autograph. And we can play Rescue the Helpless Girl and Take Her to Your Batcave. That would be oh so cool. I'll even put my hair in pigtails, if you'd like.

Or are you going to be too busy battling the dregs of Gotham? I recently read that Predator made a visit to your not-so-fair city. But you, naturally, triumphed. I knew you would. Some dreadlocked, clicking alien doesn't stand a chance against your cleverness and pectoral muscles.

Batman, I'd eat meat for you. Just thought I'd throw that out there.

Is it getting hot in here? I'm not wearing a kevlar suit or anything like you do, but I'm feeling warm. Maybe I should take off this constricting towel.

...

I love you. XOXOXXXO
-Veronica

*That doesn't happen to girls, I know. It's funny, though. Admit it.

The 50th blog is approaching.

I can't help but get a little jazzed that the 50th blog is near.

That's 50 semi-coherent rants/stories/poems by yours truly. I actually made it this far. I don't think I've ever done 50 of anything with such dedication.

Well, except for maybe eating 50 of something. But even that sounds loony.

I digress.

I'd like to do some kind of best-of/thank you type of something. Because I know I have readers. I'm just not sure who you consist of. I mean, I know six for sure (funny enough, I've seen a good chunk of those naked, hmm).

So if you've got a topic or an idea, I'm opening up the request line. Usually, I hate getting suggestions. But 50 is a big deal. That's enough time to learn to swallow the ego and invite outside inspiration.

And after 50 comes 100 (after all of the fillers, of course). And then I can't really get excited about another one until 200. Or something like that.

So, please. Let me know who all reads this. Send suggestions this way or just mention something I wrote that hangs out in your head. Maybe I can make up a little ditty about you.

Unless that frightens you. Which it might.

And now, a haiku about carpet:
Apartment carpet.
It's beige and cheap and ugly.
Next time? Concrete floors.

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 3

A bewildered Santa Claus stared at the static computer screen.

He clicked the mouse. He mashed keys. He took a nearby workshop hammer and raised it over the CPU when he heard a reassuring ticking.

The file saving that Santa had started three minutes ago was finally completing.

Santa let out a thankful sigh.

The computer reciprocated by filling the screen with naked, moaning women.

"Honey, what's that noise?" Mrs. Claus' voice drifted into the room from elsewhere in the house.

Santa frantically tried to close the windows, but with every X he clicked, another three women would appear with backdoor requests.

"Just an email from my brother, dear," Santa shouted back. "You know how he is."

He yanked the computer's plug from the wall and the women were silenced.

***

The next day, Santa was working on the computer while Mrs. Claus was dusting around the office.

"What's that?" Mrs. Claus pointed to a small picture on the screen of a beaver and a clam hand-in-hand.

"I'm not sure. It was just there when I turned on the computer."

Mrs. Clause took the computer mouse and clicked on the odd icon.

The computer screen went black. Then ...

... "Oh, my word. CHRIS!" Mrs. Clause shouted. "You work with children! How could you ... What are you ... Is that a ..."

"Ho ho hoes?" Santa replied.

"I've been a very bad girl this year." "You need to be punished." "Fill my stocking."

Seeing Mrs. Claus glare made Santa realize he needed to say something. Anything. "I don't know how they got there. I've never seen any of this ..."

"All this time I thought you were working and you've been looking up pictures of ... Frosty the Blowman!"

Santa tried to explain to his wife about spyware and adware and the never-ending battle with unwarranted downloads.

Santa slept on the couch for a week. He decided it was time to invest in some spyware filters.