What I Want for Christmas

-- Barbie Dream Plastic Surgery Operating Room Playset. Complete with real silicone! Stick-on scar tissue! Inflatable breast balloons! Ken Psychiatry Outfit with comfy couch!

-- A REALLY smartphone. No, a GENIUS-phone. I want a phone that automatically calls people that I’m thinking about or that I may have dreamed about one night and then tells me why. “Hey! I didn’t want to call my estranged stepfather!” “Oh, didn’t you?” Genius-Phone says with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.

-- Blow-snower. Snow-blotter. Blow-thrower. Show-bomber. I’m so drunk.

-- Santa Claws

-- This thing which tells time

-- I want to have a romantic comedy filmed that doesn’t involve two people who would never otherwise love each other fall in love. I want the opposite of this: “He’s a crack addicted janitor. She’s the President of Chile. In a world where crazy happens, watch love happen in ‘Chile Willy.’ This time, it’s for cocaine.”

-- Defecating with the Stars. “This week, Danny Bonaducci and Willie Aames compete in the final bowl showdown! Will the notoriously stingy judges give out any 10’s this week? Did anyone have corn for Thanksgiving? Find out Wednesday on ABC!”

-- Cadbury Turkey. An entire Turkey filled with that stuff that is in Cadbury Eggs. You want me to be thankful at Thanksgiving? This would go a long way. Get it done.

-- A bowl full of mush

-- An old lady whispering “Hush”

-- An episode of “Oprah’s Favorite Things” where she gets the crowd frothing at the mouth for some expensive giveaway and then just gives them directions home and a kick in the teeth for being so greedy and materialistic.

-- Black Monday through Friday. I think every week day the stores should open at 3AM and have an entire section of expensive stuff on sale for a dollar each. Give out nail-studded clubs at the door. Eventually, the idiots will be sorted out and the strong will survive (with three hundred TVs each). You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

-- Re-release of the lost classic: “How the Grinch Stole Labor Day”

And all of the Who’s all snug in their houses
Dreaming of Labor Day wazzles and wowzes
While the Grinch snuck down in his mean Grinchy way
And with his dog Max de-Labored their Day

But the Who’s didn’t need what the Grinch took and more
Perhaps Labor Day didn’t come from a store?
Perhaps Grover Cleveland put reconciliation with the labor movement as a top political priority and fearing further conflict, legislation making Labor Day a national holiday was rushed through Congress unanimously and signed into law a mere six days after the end of the Pullman Strike.
I’m paraphrasing here.

-- Alternate version of “Charlie Brown’s Christmas” where the final “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” sing along with the Peanuts gang was dubbed over with “Kung Fu Fighting” by a drug-addled staff member. He was caught trying to animate Snoopy giving a round kick to Lucy and immediately incarcerated. The 60’s, am I right?

-- Kind of related to the last one, I would like a box of the most dangerous dessert known to man: Kung Fudge

-- Peace on Earth Goodwill to Men. Well, not all Men. Just the good looking ones. So, Peace on Earth goodwill to Attractive Men. Don’t care what you do with the uglies. Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Hot Men, Indifference to Uglies and Extra Goodwill to Supermodels. Wait. Peace on Earth blah blah blah forget the uglies and Super-human steroid enhanced strength to Supermodels to make them beautiful and scary as shit and prone to rage blackouts. That.

My Holiday Wishes

I wish that I never hear another Tiger Woods “hole in one” joke. Why couldn’t Tiger have been a bowler? Oh, 7-10 split. Never mind.

I wish that laughter really was the best medicine because this cough syrup tastes like distilled ass.

I wish that the secretary on the public address system here at work would stop saying “decks” instead of “desk”.

I wish that the Webster’s dictionary people would get together and have the word “redonkulous” removed from our vocabulary. You have no idea how annoying that word is until you work with people in the computer programming arena. “This egg McMuffin is redonkulous!” Is it? Is it really?

I wish that the man in the cubicle next to me had a sense of humor, or even one social skill. He just had the most awkward conversation with a coworker, transcribed here for your discomfort:

Awkward Man: “Do you know what the Beatles original name was supposed to be?”
Disinterested Co-worker: “Um, no. The Bugs maybe?”
Awkward Man: “Do you want to phone a friend!” (very loud, laced with guffawing laughter)
Even More Disinterested Co-worker: *laughing politely* No, I guess I don’t know what the Beatles were almost called... *trailing off*
Loud Awkward Man: “Do you want to ask the audience!”
Even More Disinterested Co-worker: *small cough then silence*
(Wait for it…you know what’s coming)
Loud Awkward Man: “50-50?!?!!” *now laughing hysterically*
(then I hear a thump as the co-worker passes out from the weight of the awkward interaction crushes her spirit and her body)

I wish I could open my mouth and eject a forceful jet stream of Jelly Beans. I know I would scare the shit out of everyone, especially kids, but I think once everyone realized it was Jelly Beans, they would hail me as their new freakish hero.

I wish my kids had British accents.

I wish I could travel in time. My first act, of course, would be to save Michael Jackson. My second act would be to rethink that act and kill him myself. My third act would be to go a little farther back and save him again so he could teach me how to moonwalk. My fourth act would be to kill Macaulay Culkin.

I wish that 99 percent of people who come to this blog weren’t looking for help with Clubbed Thumbs. I had no idea how serious this problem was until Google started redirecting everyone to my dopey post. I get 5-10 searches a day with keywords like this:

“Why do I have clubbed thumbs”
“Where do clubbed thumbs come from”
“clubbed thumb sex”
“club thumb bad for my hand”
“my club thumb talks and makes me kill people”
“clubbed thumbs and fat feet”
“if club thumb is bleeding do I hit it with hammer again”
“how do clubbed thumbs control the weather”
“clubbed thumbs and ballet dancing”

I wish for peace on earth and good will towards hot women but only if you are single and trying to get them to sleep with you. Otherwise, I wish for peace on earth and cool indifference towards hot women.

I wish that snow was cocaine, and that cocaine was sugar, and that sugar was salt. That would take care of the drug problem and automatically salt the roads every time it snowed. It would make cookies taste like absolute balls, but that is the price you pay in the war on drugs.

I wish someone had told me that Brussels’ Sprouts don’t actually come from Brussels. I flew all the way there and was all like “Please give me your finest sprouts” and they were all like “What the fuck are you talking about?” and I was all like “America Rulez!” and they were all like “What?”

I wish I had Million Dollars. Hot Dog!

Lastly, I wish for you and all of my friends out in the blog world, and your families and their families families and pets and babies and mistresses and “paid escorts” to have a wonderful holiday season and make sure you remember the true “reason for the season”.

Which would be buying things and giving things to other people.

And wandering around aimlessly and saying things like “I need a list” to people you know.

And going to malls and buying five dollar cups of coffee while waiting in lines of people holding giant television boxes and looking sick about it.

And taking your kids to see Santa when Santa doesn’t want to see your kids and they don’t want to see him.

And opening a present from your mother in law which turns out to be an ugly sweater, which you then have to hold up and tuck under your chin with your arms holding the sleeves straight out to the sides so everyone can see an approximation of what it will look like when you actually wear it one day and then everyone can say “Oh, I like that sweater a lot, very nice!” while you sit in your chair looking like a palsied scarecrow with lock jaw and a sweater stuck under your chin.

Be safe, drink lots of egg nog (why aren’t there any other kinds of nogs), and I’ll see you in ’10.