somebody, please send help.

I am writing this on my iPhone from a dark cave.

The men have kidnapped me and are making me watch football.

In all fairness, though, they are no longer aware of my presence. So I am soon going to make my escape (thank you, Romo).

Seriously, though. I could be standing here in Frederick's of Hollywood's most scandalous ensemble and I'd still go unnoticed.

Football is amazing like that. It has magical powers beyond biology.

Oh! Game over.

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 2

Months passed. Santa spent the majority of his time gathering raw materials for toy production and watching daytime soaps. Just for grins, Santa would keep track of his purchases and discoveries with a spreadsheet that he created.

"This will help during tax season," Santa chuckled. The great thing about being Santa, everything is written off.*

As Santa was adjusting font sizes and colors, a window popped up.

"There are updates available for this computer," it said.

Santa clicked the window. The computer started downloading software.

"Neat," Santa thought. "It's working out."

Santa continued his spreadsheeting/databasing.

Every few days, Santa's computer would update itself. Everyday, Santa would enter important information into the computer.

Days turned into weeks which melded into months which lead Santa to October. Crunch time.

Santa cursed the day that department stores started prepping for Christmas in October. It totally butted in on his and Ms. Claus' Halloween fun. (This last Halloween, Santa went as Hugh Hefner and Ms. Claus went as a bunny. True story.)

Throughout October, Santa began building templates for lists of children:
Children who were good
Children who were bad
Children who were good last year who are now bad
Children who were bad last year who are now good
Children without parents
Children who have siblings
Children who have no siblings
Children who have pets
Children who are twins
Children who go to inner-city schools who have overcome huge obstacles despite society
And all other things vital to determining how many presents, if any, a child deserves.

In November, Santa researched all the hot new toys and gadgets for the following holiday season. He made more lists.

Then, December came 'round the bend. And Santa was ready.

He put names into lists. He spell-checked them twice. He was filing and editing who was naughty and nice. Santa Claus was fully online.

He'd cross names out when the presents were made and labeled and put in proper places. He'd move kids around from list to list. He'd have incoming messages from children go to one folder and messages from family members go to another folder. As for spam? He'd put those people on his very-naughty list.

Santa was amazed at what all he could do with the awesome machine.

Until it froze.

...


*Santa doesn't pay taxes. After all, you can't fill in the number forms on a tax form with "cookies" and "glasses of milk."

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 1

Back in the old days, Santa used to get hundreds upon thousands upon hundreds of thousands of hand-written letters from children during the winter holidays.

Then Santa started dropping computers down chimneys (I know cause he left my sister and I one) and children began typing their Santa letters. Jolly ol' St. Nick really liked that because as we all know, children's penmanship is sometimes difficult to read.

Some years later, homes became web-enabled. And children would send Santa emails.

The problem? Santa didn't have internet access. After all, there's not much in the North Pole besides a barn full of reindeer and some elves. So Santa would have to send elves down South to public libraries and print shops where the elves would print out all of the emails and bring them back to the North Pole. This, of course, made last-minute requests difficult to fill.

Sometime back in 2005, one of the major internet providers installed some cables near ninety degrees latitude and Santa's workshop was online! To celebrate, Mrs. Claus bought Santa a computer for Christmas (or "elves made Santa a computer;" whatever).

"A computer! For me?" Santa asked. He was so used to giving them to video-game-obsessed tweens that he never even thought to get one for himself.

But with emails being so easy to send, Santa got even more letters than he had ever gotten before. Not to mention that some children would email him daily! So the amount of letters that Santa was receiving nearly quadrupled.

Santa didn't sleep. Santa didn't eat. Santa would spend all night checking his email and printing out letters and making piles of "good" and "bad" requests.

So the next year, Mrs. Claus gave her husband the latest and greatest version of Microsoft Office because that's what big, American companies used.

"It has a spreadsheet so you can sort your lists electronically," Mrs. Claus told her husband. "And all those emails you get? They'll automatically be filed into good and bad!"

Brilliant! This computer could automatically sort and create charts and make schedules! Santa could focus more time on toy quality like in the old days before the population boomed (so many naughty children having children).

So sometime in February of 2007 (Santa spends January vacationing in Florida because he's old), the elves and Santa set up the new computer.

...

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It usway antasticfay.

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Osay eway okebray out in Igpay Atinlay.

Ethay ingthay about ailnay alonssay is atthay ethay adieslay and entlemenejay* atthay orkway erethay uallyusay easkspay apidray-irefay in onnay-glishenay anguageslay.

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Eestersay, isthay's unway* orfay ooyay*. Onglay enispay Essicajay.

Oodgay ightnay.


*Elledspay oneticallyphay.

Holy crap, I suck!

I took a holiday hiatus from the ol' blog and was supposed to write last night.

And I totally forgot.

Instead, I wrote my new holiday outgoing voicemail. I guess that's a valid excuse.

If you know my number, feel free to call and listen to it.

The gnome wouldn't take gno for an answer.

There was a little house on a little street in a little suburb.

The little house had a little yard with a little garden and a little lawn gnome. The little gnome stood to the right of the path next to a bird bath. He stood there for three years with a lawn flamingo, a metal dragonfly and a key-hiding rock.

Then one day, one life changing day an old four-dour Ford something drove by with speakers blaring. The bass shook the leaves in the little yard in front of the little house. The highs made little animals flee from the little garden. The music shook the little lawn gnome to the very core.

With every pulsing beat, the gnome wiggled and vibrated and scooted around. What a rush! The gnome could only hope that something similar would happen again.

He looked around at his yard buddies. They weren't so amuzed by the sudden burst of sound in their garden. The flamingo had fallen over; the rock had opened up to reveal its key, and the dragon fly rung with the sound of a tuning fork.

But the gnome, oh the gnome was filled with the urge to dance.

"You can't dance," the flamingo said. "You're a lawn gnome."

"Yeah," chimed in the rock. "Your purpose in life is to be stolen by teenagers."

"And photographed in comprimising places," the dragonfly dinged.

The gnome could only laugh at his cohorts. Their words hung in the air like treble clefs so he twirled and swayed to them. He do-si-doed to the sounds of jogger's MP3 players. He tapped his toes to TV jingles that escaped from windows.

For weeks, the gnome danced to the sounds of his little street. And one day he heard a familiar sound.

The car! With the music!

The gnome felt as if he were being lifted into the air. He flew over the yard. He ... wasn't where he was supposed to be. Something wasn't right.

The gnome was tossed into a trunk. He wasn't dancing at all! He was being kidnapped!

He traveled around the greater part of the large city near his little suburb. And now he resides in a little, music-filled office on a little shelf next to a little lamp.

This is a blog. This is not a diary.

Dear Blog,

I'm so glad I have you. You force me to write something five times a week. And that's so good for me. Because no matter how tired, irritated or drunk I get, I must take at least ten (or five) minutes and type out what must be shared.

So thank you, Blog.

I feel like I can tell you anything.

Well, almost anything.

Okay, not everything. You're Google searchable (right?) and I have no idea who all is reading you. So I can't really type about work cause that could end my job. And I can't really talk about stupid crap my friends have done, cause they might see it and know that I think they're stupid. And I can't type about all of the prostituting I've done, because Lord Allmighty, if my dad saw this! Whew-wee! How embarassing would it be for him to know about that one time I snuck all of that black tar H across the border in my butt!*

But I can type make believe stories into you, Blog. And that's great. I haven't been able to think of any make believe lately. Perhaps the muse will sing in me tomorrow and I'll tell the tale of Pinnoccio's half sister. Or the two-holed bowling ball. Or maybe I can come up with something about a catepillar who was raised by snakes.

Heck, that last one writes itself. I might have to go ponder that one for a bit.

Until tomorrow, Blog!

-Q of A



*Just kidding. That story is false. It was really tabs of X!