Worst Christmas Ever

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through my head

were feelings of nausea and desire to be dead.

Sorry, Bloggers. I thought I had it in me to recreate this holiday masterpiece to describe what was my holiday nightmare, but my creative license has not been renewed just yet.

Christmas Eve, as I lay there with visions of sugarplums dancing, I tried to contort my body into a fetal position, for there was no room on the couch. I could not sleep, for I had an uncomfortable feeling of restlessness and anxiety that I could not shake. I thought I might just be nervous Santa would not show with me in the living room to catch him, but I quickly dismissed this as nonsense. Nonsense, because Santa is too fast to see with the naked eye anyway. He's like Matrix fast. Nevertheless, the anxiety never left. Like a spirit, it haunted me all night. I honestly prayed just to make it to morning as I counted down every hour, but it was hopeless. The dreaded beast was upon me.

It was 5 am, Christmas day. I had almost made it to daybreak, but the beast was fast at my heels. I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck, and I thought I heard him whisper, "Look, it's Santa." Foolishly I turned forgetting about the whole Santa/Keanu thing, and that's when the beast sucker-punched me in the gut.

I emptied my stomach (to try to put it nicely) about every two hours until about 3 that afternoon. You see, instead of stuffing myself and gaining some weight this Christmas, the Burger King I ate the day before had other plans. Oh, I'm sorry B.K. I can't prove it was you that poisoned me, and even if I could, I can't stay mad at you with all your cool video games. But if anyone is looking for a great crash diet, I will gladly give you the address of this fine establishment.

I did not move far from that couch for the next three days. I royally ruined all of my family's holiday plans because they all felt guilty leaving me there alone. But I did get to take in alot of crappy television and film. Do you mind if I share a few with you? I didn't think so.

1. The Today Show

Not really a lot I can say bad about this show. The people seem fairly normal except they are really happy and excited that it is morning.

2. Live with Regis and Kelly

The only thing saving this show is the Rege. He is pretty funny, and I think he knows that his show and his cohort are a joke. But I don't think he minds because it is easy and money is pretty good. Kelly is really annoying, and is lucky she is pretty.

3. Martha Stewart

This is ridiculous. She pulls out about 15 different items you need to take care of your shoes, and the audience goes nuts. Who has time to do all this stuff? I would have to take a day off from work just to do some annual maintenance on my Newbies. She also brags too much about how she used to model in France. I think I would respect her more if she bragged about how she used to be in jail and show us some of those cool prison tats that she got.

4. Oprah

Nevermind.

5. Teletubbies

I really don't want to talk about these guys because everytime I do, I can feel my blood pressure increasing.

a. What are these "things" teaching our children? They barely speak the Queen's English, and when they do it is always in fragments.

b. They always watch these stupid movies on their bellies which takes up the majority of the episode because they watch it twice. The only good thing to be said about the video is that at least it is usually in English and can be educational if you catch the metaphors. When I was four, I was catching metaphors, but I am a rare exception.

c. The gay one, Tinky Winky, I believe his name is. I know we can't prove he is gay, but everyone suspects it. Well my gaydar was going off on the episode I watched where he was running around carrying a purse. Come on BBC, won't someone think of the children?

6. A Different World

This many angry black people scare the white out of me.

Well, I think that is enough for now, for I'm sure I have offended and scared enough of my readers, of which there are two.

Confession

Dear Baby Jesus,

Please forgive me for wasting 30 minutes of my existence while watching the last half of the new hit reality show "Identity" hosted by the everso charismatic Penn of the magical duo Penn and Teller while waiting on an hour-long rerun of "The Office" to air. I also would like to petition you for the strength to repent and break my addiction for writing ridiculous run-on sentences with unnecessary alliteration and feeling proud of myself for it. I know this is a pathetic waste of precious blog space and an uncouth slap in the face of those who wake up every morning and have to live with poor grammar skills.

Thank you for the chicken-flavored Ramen noodles that you have provided for me and a large pot where I can cook up a lovely double-batch for my dinner.

Thank you for my Casio keyboard on which I just so brilliantly picked out the theme song from "The Office." Thank you for using this to show me why I am still single.

Please give me sufficient rest and pleasant dreams tonight even if I stay up late and watch Family Guy and Aquateen Hungerforce on Cartoon Network so that tomorrow at work I won't try to spay a male cat.

Thank you reading my blog. Feel free to drop me a comment.

P.S.
Thank you for all the endorsements that made this blog possible.

Blogger? Hardly knew her

Style: To be sung to the tune of "Yesterday" by The Beatles

Yesterday. The prettiest client ever looked my way, but I was at a loss of what to say. So I began to vaccinate.

Suddenly. I'm not half the vet I used to be, and her cat's claws are sinking into me. Three explicatives came suddenly.

Why she was so hot, I knew not, she wouldn't say.
I said not enough cooler stuff to make her staaaay.

Yesterday. "Wow!" was all that I could think to say. My female staff considered going gay. Oh, I can't believe I made her pay.

Why she had to leave, I want to heave for what I said.
I stared a bit too long, and now this song's stuck in my heaaad.

Yesterdead (Sorry, I had to rhyme with head.)

Table for Two

Hey Blogheads,

If anyone is still reading my nonsensical ravings and was wondering, yes I am still using my George W thesaurus. For this week's installment, I would like to reconsider two humorous observations I made this week.

The first act opens with two young men in their late 20s to early 30s entering an upscale Mexican restaurant. Both of our heroes are casually dressed and moderately attractive. Both characters are immediately and violently pierced by the jagged stares and furrowed brows of other restaurant patrons. The two young men look at each other each having a certain uneasiness in their eyes. The host greets them. "Table for two," he cries out like a death sentence at a decibel that the guy on the deep fryer comes out to get a good look. The two humiliated men are led to a table with the best lighting right in the middle of the restaurant and hesitantly sit down.

In hindsight, I should have ordered a beer instead of a cosmopolitan. But seriously, it is an unfortunate circumstance in the 21st century the connotation that is assumed when two decent looking gentlemen enter a dining establishment at night. I am not here to judge because I have been guilty of the inquisitive stares as well. But being on the recieving end is no picnic. It doesn't stop at restaurants, I have recieved these looks in grocery stores, coffee shops, church, etc. Well, maybe not church, not yet at least. I don't think I'm alone in these feelings. I feel that there are more of us heteros out there who are being wrongly accused just because we enjoy having dinner with a friend who just happens to be a guy. Girls can luckily get away with it, and here are two theories why. It is either because it is more acceptable for two girls to hang out alone or lesbianism is not frowned on as much as two dudes.

The second act will also probably not be appreciated due to lack of experience on the readers' part. Therefore, I would like to include a homework assignment in this brief story. The other day when I was killing time before a job interview, I went to a local guitar store. The thing that always makes me laugh about these stores is the cacophony of noise that is produced by an army of electric guitars cranked up to eleven with enough distortion to make Metallica blush. Saturdays are the best time to go. This is when all the middle/high school rockers are there showing off for their peers. This past Saturday, I was fortunate to witness four of these prep-school hippies wearing their backwards hats fully equipped with self-inflicted scuff marks and fraying, and all four were rocking out simultaneously to different tunes in different time signatures. I know none of my readers (if anyone still reads this crap) appreciate this now. I want you to, desparately I do. So, I challenge you to visit a store over the holidays and report back to me on the comments with what you saw, heard, and smelled. This assignment is worth 100 points which represents 1/4 of your overall grade for this semester. Don't dissapoint me.

New Job

Dear Bloggerinos,

I was just settling down to a warm bowl of chicken soup pie. It's actually quite good, and if you would like some for your Christmas dinner table, you had better get your orders in soon. For simplicity just include your order with the usual comments and praise of yours truly.

I got a new job yesterday, and I wasn't even looking for one. It just goes to show how much God loves and wants to bless us. It was one of those spontaneous job interviews to see how well I thought on my feet. Obviously, I did quite well. Starting this Monday, I will be tying bags closed in a secure fashion so little fish cannot escape into the floorboard of automobiles thus making small children cry. That really is my job description. Unfortunately, like my previous occupation, this too is a highly stressful job, but the hours are much better. This job really just fell into my lap. Let me tell you how it happened.

I was at the local pet store and was planning to purchase some roomates for my 5 year old fish "Buddy." There was no help in sight. So I sojourned down the dog biscuit aisle to find a young clerk arranging a display of doggy Christmas stockings. The following dialogue ensues:

Chris: "Excuse me, miss."
Charming Clerk: "What!?"
Chris: (Taken aback and fighting back laughter) "Could I possibly get assistance with some fish?"
Charming Clerk: "Michelle! You busy?"
Charming Clerk #2: "Yeah!"
Charming Clerk: "Ok, so you want some fish?"
Chris: "Yes, please."
Charming Clerk: "Alright. Sorry about saying 'What' earlier. It has been a long day, and I'm 'bout to get off. Which ones do you reckon you want."
Chris: "How 'bout. I mean how about one of these orange gouramis and that pleco there."
Charming Clerk: "Alright. Hey! Are they supposed to be that skinny? Oh my, look at that one. Ooh, that's gross. (As she pointed at a fish belly up in the adjacent tank with some scavenger fish taking advantage of their roomate's unfortunate mishap) My, they sure are tricky to catch. Got'em. Hey, do you mind tying this bag up so the fish don't get out. I would do it, but my hands are wet. That'll be $7 even, and you might want to keep your reciept in case one of them dies on you. There is a week's warranty.

And that is how I came to be an employee of the local pet store. Pretty smart interview process if you ask me. I'm sure it really weeds out those who can't handle the pressure when they are put on the spot. It will be such a privilege to work for someone who thinks outside of the box like that. The ironic part is that I had just come from another job interview and merely wanted to buy some fish. Well, needless to say, in the end they made me a better offer. The financial incentive was just icing on the pie; because honestly, they had me at "What?".

Chicken Pot Pie

I had been looking forward to Thursday night all week. It was the beginning of my long weekend, and I was more than ready to kick back and watch my stories. The past two weeks of work had been hellacious, and my Thursday night cooking escapade was the icing on the proverbial cake, or pie as it were.

Work has been very difficult, and I feel like a complete failure to my clients and patients. Nothing has gone right lately. Fortunately, that is a huge exaggeration. I have had some splendid cases with wonderful and happy endings. Unfortunately for me, it only takes a few bad cases to ruin my week and shatter my confidence. These cases always make me second guess myself, my treatment choices, and sometimes even my career choice. The responsibilities and emotional fatique that come with this job are sometimes overwhelming. My boss says I am too hard on myself and that I shouldn't beat myself up over situations out of my control. I know that he is right, but I can't seem to make myself believe it enough to practice it. I carry all of my bad cases home with me at night and then back to work the next day, then back home and so on. I know that can't be healthy, especially if I ever want a marriage like my grandparents have. The only good that can come from baggage like this is knowledge. I must learn from what I consider mistakes and just try better next time. However, the thing that really gets me whenever I recite this cliche to myself is the context. We are not talking about a bad financial decision or a few missed questions on a test. This is life or death. An animal's life or death. I am so thankful that I am not a human physician. I could not handle that pressure. But to my clients, these mere animals are almost like children to them. And when I lose one of their children and have to tell them this . . .

I am emotionally fatigued from the number of clients I have made weep in the past month. I need a break. I decided to take one today. A minor one, but one nonetheless.

I woke up this morning, and decided I did not feel like doing any surgery today. I told my boss this, and he gracefully agreed to take my surgeries for the day. All I did today was vaccinate a few animals, do a pregnancy check on a weimeraner, and stitch up one of my patient's stuffed rabbit. I thank God I felt like crap this morning, and I'll tell you why. My one surgery of the day was a routine dog ovariohysterectomy(nice big doctor word, impressed?) . When my boss went to make the incision, he noticed a finite linear scar right down the midline of this dog's belly. "This dog's been spayed," he said. I looked at the scar which was exactly where a surgical scar would be. It was so small and clean that I know I would have missed it had I done that surgery today, and the dog would have been cut needlessly. I was relieved.

Since I did not have a lot to do, my boss let me leave early. I was very excited to get home and go running. On my way home, I stopped by the store to get some things for dinner. I wanted to cook for my aunt and uncle who come over every Thursday to watch my stories with me. I had the strangest notion to cook chicken pot pie. . . without a recipe. I was obviously suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome or some delusions of iron chef grandeur to think I could pull off such a culinary feat. Granted, I had done this once before, but that was many moons ago in a lovely village called Northepointe.

Like a mad scientist, I gathered all my ingredients on the countertop and began to add them to the pie crust. I was so excited, I called my grandmother to get confirmation on heat and time. To my surprise, my guess of 400 degrees for 20 minutes was exactly what she recommended. I felt really good. I was in the iron chef zone. I decided to shoot for bonus points by brewing some lipton sweet tea (spared no expense). Twenty minutes later, I remove my masterpiece from the oven, and it is beautiful. The crust a golden brown. The aroma of rosemary chicken consumed my little kitchenette. I eagerly cut into the pie's golden exoskeleton and attempted to scoop a piece to serve to my famished guests. But I scooped nothing but crust. The filling of the pie was nothing but chicken soup. It was then that I realized my fatal error. Instead of cream of chicken soup, I had foolishly used chicken broth. I don't know why I was so surprised after the week I had just had. But God also used this oppo. to bless me.

After declaring the chicken soup pie unfit to eat, I ordered pizza. Only then, did I discover that the cravings of my aunt for that evening was in fact an italian pie. Poetic, isn't it? Despite my pie being a complete disaster, God gave me a peace about everything because she wanted pizza. To me, the simplicity of that is beautiful. I don't know if my storytelling does it justice for everyone in Bloggerland. I hope you can see it as I do.

Anyway, thank you to everyone who wastes precious minutes of their lives to read my thoughts. And even more thanks to those who comment. I am really addicted to this blogging thing, and when I started, I didn't think I would have anything to write about. The truth is, I can't stop writing. I love it, even if no one is reading. I love you all.

This is a love story

I first met her on the bus where I would save her a seat on the way to school. I was two grades ahead of her at that time. After school we would split one of those popsicles with two sticks and spend the rest of the afternoon talking and procrastinating on homework. We were good friends.

When I was a senior in high school, I made a decision to drop out and work at the steel factory in town with my father and older brother to help support the family. Times were still hard in post-depression America. My teacher cried on the day that I left and was sure I was making a terrible mistake.

Two years later, I returned to school. I had one class with my friend from the bus. Our classroom faced the highway, and I always found myself daydreaming about what lay down that road only to be rudely awoken by my teacher telling me to "come down off the highway." It wasn't long after my return to school that the second great war had begun, and I had been called into the service. Because of the almost assurance of a semi-permanent home, I chose the navy rather than the army. I took the next train to San Diego to begin my training. It took us five days to reach the coast.

I began training to be an electrician on board an aircraft carrier. I was second in my class, and this is likely due to my missing a week for having catarrhal fever. Because of my grades, they asked me to further train to learn maintenance of the ship's gyroscope. I consented, and they shipped me to Seattle for another 4 months of training. While I was out west, I recieved a letter from my friend. This made a big impression on me. We were good friends.

After I completed my training, I was given a few weeks of leave before I would be shipped overseas for the war. I decided during this leave that I would pay my old friend a visit. This is when our friendship became something so much more.

When I returned from the war, we were married. I returned to school yet again to graduate and proceed onto college where I would eventually get a degree in mathematics. While obtaining my degree, I was called back into action by the naval reserve. I asked for deferment, but they said they needed me now, not later. So, I was shipped to the south Pacific for the Korean conflict leaving my education and my wife behind.

While in Korea, we were stationed in an extremely dangerous territory for about a month. There was no correspondence. My wife did not hear from me during any of this time. She had no idea what my condition was or if I was even alive. One day at work, she recieved a phone call from her best friend who lived next door. She said, "Hurry home. Your mailbox is overflowing with letters." She arrived home to find 30 letters from her husband, one for each day he was in enemy territory.

The conflict finally came to an end, and I returned home to my wife and to complete my education. We had a son that year, and I recieved my masters in education from Auburn. The wars were over, and my family was finally given the time we wanted to start our lives together.

That was almost sixty years ago, and my grandparents are still married and splendidly happy. I only pray that I can find a love that pure and steadfast. I could only be so lucky.

Thanksgiving

Dearest Bloggers,

The first thing I am thankful for this year is you. Which coincidentally also happens to be all I want for Christmas(for those of you who have upgraded to beta blogger, you can download Mariah Carey's fabulous interpretation of this holiday classic by clicking on the previous link). Your comments and sincere concern for my haircut and the loan I took out to pay for it have been recieved with open arms and it has truly warmed my heart. However, this week's blog may prove to be less jovial, I'm afraid.

This week's episode is obviously about Thanksgiving. . .the most American holiday of the calendar year. We can all thank our first log cabin republican for giving us this one day off to spend with family and friends in order to gorge ourselves on tryptophan and take afternoon naps. What's more American than overeating? Maybe fighting with your fellow man at "the Walmarts" at 5 am over sweatshop-made flat screens at unbelievable holiday "price cuts." Dear bloggers, I implore you to please forgive my bitterness, but this holiday really has been raped of it's simplistic beauty by giving way to good old-fashioned American consumerism.

That's really all I want to say on that matter. Onto a far more important matter that has gone too long without saying. Warning: the rest of this blog gets really political, and the views and opinions expressed are not those of blogger, ninjas, or pirates.

I recently saw a motion picture, or "movie", that really upset me for its completely unrealistic content and representation of how the USA deals with terrorist. I'm sure W would agree with me that the content of this film and its portrayal of homeland security are nothing short of insulting. The picture of which I speak is the 2005 release of King Kong, directed by Peter Jackson. If you are a patriot and want to support America, I highly suggest that you boycott supporting this movie. Outside of pathetic CG animation and poor writing is its desparate attempt to spurn patriotism with an elaborate display of our military might within the streets of NYC. In this spectacular scene, Peter Jackson spared no expense with special effects to push his political views. But they are not really his views after all, considering this is a remake of a classic movie. Maybe, it is more of a historical piece of cinema.

The 1930s were vastly different than the 21st century. But when it comes to homeland security, we stick to our guns. Perhaps, the scene of Kong being chased by the national guard shooting up buildings with no regard for innocent bystanders or a damsel in distress is realistic. Maybe I am wrong for the first time in my life, and this masterful work of PJ's is reminding us Americans that we do not negotiate with terrorists. However, it is still shocking to me. I mean, I could see us behaving this way in say Baghdad, Tehran, Ahganistan, etc. (credibility out the window for spelling errors). But, I have a hard time believing that we would not try to negotiate with a 30 ft. terrorist gorilla on American soil. If the mayor ordered the kind of attack that this movie portrays, the PR clean up would be a complete nightmare. I also think PJ could have taken an interesting spin on the classic by trying to negotiate with a 30 ft. gorilla.

Anyway, I am now satisfied for sufficiently wasting more of your bleaping time. I mean your blogging time.

The Haircut

Dear Fellow Bloggers and Future Leaders of America,

Disclaimer: The blog you are about to read may very well change your life; however, for better or worse is unfortunately out of my control. It is entirely up to the reader and how he/she chooses to use said information.

First of all, I would like to take this opportunity to welcome myself to the 21st century and this lovely blogging community. This is a huge step for me, and I'm sure you are all very proud.
I would also like to thank Al Gore for inventing the internet for us so that we can keep in touch and also for giving us the environment.

This week I got a haircut. Isn't that great? I recieved said haircut at a salon that was recommended by a friend with two first names. (Note to self: taking advice from people with two first names should be done with upmost caution). First, I must stress how difficult this haircut was for me. I have always regarded the client/stylist relationship as one of fidelity. It's not business, it's personal. When you find a good stylist/barber, you stick with them for better or worse. I unfornately was tempted by the fruit of another.

It all began about 5-6 weeks ago at my previous haircut experience when I was sexually harassed by my exstylist. Bloggers, the remainder of this blogoraph is rated PG-13 for mildly strong sexual content. It went down during the shampoo session of the appointment. Exstylist proceeded to shampoo the back of my neck for what seemed to be 3-5 minutes. Last time I checked, I didn't have much hair on the back of the neck. Nevertheless, she lathered, rinsed, and repeated while informing me she just broke up with her boyfriend. Needless to say, I was a bit uncormfortable. But I don't think the back of my neck has ever been cleaner.

Recent past. . . I decided to try a new stylist as recommended by forementioned friend with two first names. This place was swanky. It was like a salon/night club, but the musak was more soothing. This place even offers men beer while they wait for the haircut. I was not as fortunate to recieve this perk because my appointment was for 9 am, and they don't start serving alcohol until 10:30 am. While I was waiting, I kept recieving smiles from the staff and other clientele. I was thinking to myself, that this place was really friendly. It wasn't until I sat down in the barber chair and looked into the mirror to see a spot of chocolate on my nose from that morning's mocha. That's funny.

The haircut was going great. You should have seen it. I have never seen such masterful use of scissors except from Johnny Depp in Edward Scissorhands. I mean we are talking that good.
I recieved a phone call while in the chair. Leslie just said, "I am a prisoner of my own mind." Isn't that great? Anyway, the phone call was from none other than my exstylist checking up on me, and I was in the middle of cheating on her. How could I answer? I did not answer. I would not, should not, could not answer. So nothing happened. Moviescript ending, huh?

But that is not the end. I am not yet done wasting your time with my story. The cost of this affair was astronomical. It made me nauseated when I heard it. Forty-eight freakin' dollars. That number is now forever burned in my memory. For the rest of the day, I kept repeating that number to myself under my breath. I even saw the number everywhere . . . street addresses, phone numbers, etc. It even exists in my own phone between the lines 908-4947. This is not a shameful plug or parody of the new Dr. Pepper commercials or the next Jim Carrey movie. THIS IS REAL LIFE PEOPLE. I just wanted to warn you, bloggers, because I love you all, and I don't want you to befall the same fate as me.

Take Home Points:
1. Don't cheat on your barber. It costs alot. It costs about $48.00.
2. Don't be that guy that spends more on a haircut than a girl.
3. Don't entirely trust people with two first names.

Hello.