Well, another Holiday Season is in the books. Wilting pine trees are sitting upside-down in gutters, bizarre "practical" gifts have been exchanged for things we really wanted in the first place but were too embarrassed to ask for or purchase for ourselves, thrice-gnawed turkey carcasses have been finally given up on and heaved guiltily into the garbage and the last of the Lords a’ Leaping have been rounded up after their holiday furloughs and returned whence they came to serve out the remainders of their sentences. All the seasonal traditions have pretty much run their course but there is just time for one more….
Uncle Damon’s 2009 Christmas Card À-Go-Go!
Yes, yes…I know what you’re going to say. You are about to point out, rather snidely, if I may say, that it is technically no longer Christmas, nor indeed is it 2009, to which I retort, with what is under the circumstances justifiable spikiness, with the traditional refrain of “No shit, Sherlock”, a phrase which I have been trying, hitherto unsuccessfully, to reintroduce into everyday conversation, along with “Odd’s bodkins!” and perhaps “Whoa…far out, man”.
Well, if you must know, I have been meaning to complete this missive for some time but was having a bit of bother deciding what format it was going to take.
Having proclaimed in the 2008 Card in what, in retrospect, seems like a rash bit of drunken overconfidence that I would retire my threadbare but always reliable boxing metaphor as well as the services of traditional CCAGG mainstays like Mongo Santamaria and Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, I found myself rather stuck for material.
In short, my rum-fuelled hubris had painted me into a metaphorical corner, as rum-fuelled hubris is wont to do. As opposed to tequila-fuelled hubris, which generally sees you surreptitiously trying to locate your trousers in the middle of the night in a strange apartment and wondering if the trains are still running from wherever the Hell you are.
I figured that to make up for the tardiness of delivery and to commemorate the end of a momentous decade, I needed to produce something special. Like a Christmas story. Yes, a heartwarming tale of holiday spirit which would eventually become a classic, passed on from generation to generation and hopefully be made into a television special featuring plasticky, stop-motion characters whose mouths don't quite move in exact synchronisation with the words but you don't mind too much because that just seems to add to its whimsical charm.
It was all coming to me in a rush of tipsy inspiration. It would be an uplifting tale of a swarthy child who, despite living in abject penury and wearing one of those flat caps that swarthy children living in abject penury in heartwarming holiday tales seem to be so fond of, learns the true meaning of Christmas. And it would go something like this:
Once upon a time, in the sleepy village of San Bartolomeo, lived a young boy named Pepe.
Pepe was a happy child, despite living in abject penury and being undeniably swarthy in a world where, to be frank, that’s still a distinct disadvantage, and spent many a contented afternoon playing in the dusty San Bartolomeo streets with his various swarthy little friends and his younger sister Condenada, who would smile wanly and cough periodically in a foreboding manner that made you think that it was bound to have some relevance later on in the story.
The people of San Bartolomeo were poor but proud. None prouder, and certainly none poorer, than Pepe's family. His father had, um...some job that really sucked. Possibly, you know...something that involved heat and…toil. And maybe digging. Perhaps some kind of unappetising vegetable or...tuber. Or some kind of, you know...mineral...resource. Plus, there’s like…a donkey or something, who talks or maybe doesn’t talk but gazes at everybody sagely with a kind of mute bonhomie but is too old to carry the tubers…or minerals to the…market…and there’s…there’s also…
Awwww, the hell with it. I can't be asked. Maybe if I'd done this part when the Holiday Spirit™ was squarely upon me and my eyes glistened in the votive candlelight and my lower lip was all aquiver with Yuletide sentiment but now, I just can’t fucking bother. Sorry.
Anyway, it is, as they say, the thought that counts and the point of this abortive tale of inspirational holiday whoopty-do is my way of saying that I hope that every one of you had a groovy Season, be you an adherent of one of the “recognized” faiths who observe some kind of spiritual festival at this time of year or just someone who likes drinking wine, getting presents and not doing any work.
I sincerely hope that every one of you has an absolutely awesome year, which in turn kicks off an awesome decade because to be blunt, we’re all getting a bit long in the tooth to still be going through dodgy ones all the time. I hope that all your holiday wishes come true and your holiday resolutions stick. And I hope, in accordance with my own resolution, to spend more quality time with every one of you this year since, let’s face it, it’s pretty much a Christmas/Hannukah/Eid/Festivus/Kwanzaa/Diwali/Satanic Lesbian Winter Squash Festival Miracle that I’m even still standing in 2010, when smart money had me kicking the proverbial bucket somewhere in the mid 90s.
Thank you for your attention, and your patience, Chillun and Happy More-or-Less-New Year.
Monday, 4 January 2010
Tuesday, 23 December 2008
Uncle Damon’s 2008 Christmas Card à-Go-Go.
Well Chillun, believe it or not, it’s that time of year again. Time for joy and cheer and charity and fellowship. Time for quiet introspection and coy, dewy-eyed glances towards the future. Time for tremulous humming and swaying and grinning vacuously at our loved ones. And most importantly of all, time for:
Uncle Damon’s Christmas Card à-Go-Go…2008.
I can sense you are all agog with anticipation to hear how I made out in my latest bout with what is popularly referred to as "reality" so I’ll make with the overused metaphors already.
At the opening bell I came roaring out of my corner like a man possessed. I sensed this might be my year and I would not be denied. My footwork was smooth, my head movement was sharp and I was working well behind my jab. I was pretty, my friends. God, but I was pretty. Sure enough, I took the early rounds with ease, even taking time to showboat for the crowd and wink at a group of ladies in the audience who, upon reflection, may actually have been a couple of prostitutes and a skinny dude in a gold lamé cocktail dress.
Well, like all aging fighters, although my punch was still there and I now have guile up the proverbial Wazoo, my conditioning apparently isn’t what it once was thanks to years of drunken carousing, wanton libertinism and unchecked consumption of pork stuffed with other pork and, as sure as eggs is eggs, I began to flag in the later rounds. 2008, the dastard, the poltroon, sensing his opening, pounced and began landing rabbit punch after kidney punch after egregious nutshot. But insurmountable pride and indomitable stupidity kept me going and I survived the late onslaught through a clever combination of eye-gouging, ear biting and a touch of the old Hey-Look-In-The-Third-Row-Isn’t-That-Clarence-Williams-III? I am not proud that it came to that but the important thing is, I hung on and got my second wind.
I like to think that I eked out a close decision win - hooray for me - win but I took some punishment in the process. The once-adorable features that you have all come to know and politely tolerate were pounded flat until I looked like Leon Spinks’ long lost - let’s face it - sister. The important thing though is that I still came away with the win. That's what counts, the rest is the price of doing bidniss. Wounds heal, bones knit, testicles redescend.
Whew, well that boxing analogy is wearing as thin as those old underpants that you mistakenly consider “lucky” so you know what? I’m going to retire it after this year’s Card. Yes, yes...I know that you’ve all come to…politely tolerate it and it’s certainly less weird and smugly esoteric than most of my other analogies (such as my Atom Transfer Radical Polymerisation bit, which, while perhaps no "Who's On First?", I maintain was fucking hilarious). Nonetheless, I’ve decided that this is a turning point in my life and therefore, the History of The Universe. The President of the United States is black*, Sunny Von Bulow gave up trying to testify in court and decided to go on ahead to stake out a good spot to waylay Claus on The Other Side with the Rolling Pin of Karma, Black Moses (a personal hero on par with Bootsy) caught the mothership to Venus to await his next assignment and the international...um...global...well I imagine other stuff happened in the world as well. Anyway, the upshot of it all this is, as you’ve probably been told, it’s time for Change™. I personally think Change™ is an awesome idea and that should be good enough for everyone else as I am, as you know, a licensed and bonded arbiter of that which is awesome. What? Yeah, it’s a good gig. Kind of like being a Beta Tester for a software company, the key difference being I have seen a naked woman in real life….if memory serves.
So, having endorsed and embraced the idea of Change™, I say let’s go for it. Let’s fucking, you know...just…go for it, man. I’ve decided 2009 is my year. In fact, I’ve decided 2009 is all of our year. Our...years...it's all of usses…it’s everyone’s year. For this reason, I’ve resolved not to fight it but to show it some lovin’, like Ike would have done. I don’t know if this will work but at worst, it’ll weird 2009 out and put it off-guard, at which point I can elbow it in the solar plexus and steal its lunch money. So it’s pretty much a win-win situation. And don’t worry; I won’t forget any of you. Once I have his wallet, the hot pretzels and Fanta are on me.
So to all of you - to all my family and friends and people I don’t really talk to but whose names I was far too lazy to go over and individually untick on my mailing list – allow me to indulge in one last CCAGG cliché before the dawn of the new era:
I wish you a Merry Christmas, a Chappy Chanukah, Diwali Wali Bing Bang, Kuul Eid and, Kwanzaa Kwanzaa Bo Banzaa Banana Fana Fo Fanzaa.
Actually, I think I’ll keep that part in but I will give you a chance to bid farewell to Mongo Santamaria, Ramón Novarro, Claus Von Bulow and Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, the Christmas Card à-Go-Go All Stars who, in the spirit of Change™, are appearing for the final time.
Oh, and of course, have certifiably awesome New Year.
Uncle Damon’s Christmas Card à-Go-Go…2008.
I can sense you are all agog with anticipation to hear how I made out in my latest bout with what is popularly referred to as "reality" so I’ll make with the overused metaphors already.
At the opening bell I came roaring out of my corner like a man possessed. I sensed this might be my year and I would not be denied. My footwork was smooth, my head movement was sharp and I was working well behind my jab. I was pretty, my friends. God, but I was pretty. Sure enough, I took the early rounds with ease, even taking time to showboat for the crowd and wink at a group of ladies in the audience who, upon reflection, may actually have been a couple of prostitutes and a skinny dude in a gold lamé cocktail dress.
Well, like all aging fighters, although my punch was still there and I now have guile up the proverbial Wazoo, my conditioning apparently isn’t what it once was thanks to years of drunken carousing, wanton libertinism and unchecked consumption of pork stuffed with other pork and, as sure as eggs is eggs, I began to flag in the later rounds. 2008, the dastard, the poltroon, sensing his opening, pounced and began landing rabbit punch after kidney punch after egregious nutshot. But insurmountable pride and indomitable stupidity kept me going and I survived the late onslaught through a clever combination of eye-gouging, ear biting and a touch of the old Hey-Look-In-The-Third-Row-Isn’t-That-Clarence-Williams-III? I am not proud that it came to that but the important thing is, I hung on and got my second wind.
I like to think that I eked out a close decision win - hooray for me - win but I took some punishment in the process. The once-adorable features that you have all come to know and politely tolerate were pounded flat until I looked like Leon Spinks’ long lost - let’s face it - sister. The important thing though is that I still came away with the win. That's what counts, the rest is the price of doing bidniss. Wounds heal, bones knit, testicles redescend.
Whew, well that boxing analogy is wearing as thin as those old underpants that you mistakenly consider “lucky” so you know what? I’m going to retire it after this year’s Card. Yes, yes...I know that you’ve all come to…politely tolerate it and it’s certainly less weird and smugly esoteric than most of my other analogies (such as my Atom Transfer Radical Polymerisation bit, which, while perhaps no "Who's On First?", I maintain was fucking hilarious). Nonetheless, I’ve decided that this is a turning point in my life and therefore, the History of The Universe. The President of the United States is black*, Sunny Von Bulow gave up trying to testify in court and decided to go on ahead to stake out a good spot to waylay Claus on The Other Side with the Rolling Pin of Karma, Black Moses (a personal hero on par with Bootsy) caught the mothership to Venus to await his next assignment and the international...um...global...well I imagine other stuff happened in the world as well. Anyway, the upshot of it all this is, as you’ve probably been told, it’s time for Change™. I personally think Change™ is an awesome idea and that should be good enough for everyone else as I am, as you know, a licensed and bonded arbiter of that which is awesome. What? Yeah, it’s a good gig. Kind of like being a Beta Tester for a software company, the key difference being I have seen a naked woman in real life….if memory serves.
So, having endorsed and embraced the idea of Change™, I say let’s go for it. Let’s fucking, you know...just…go for it, man. I’ve decided 2009 is my year. In fact, I’ve decided 2009 is all of our year. Our...years...it's all of usses…it’s everyone’s year. For this reason, I’ve resolved not to fight it but to show it some lovin’, like Ike would have done. I don’t know if this will work but at worst, it’ll weird 2009 out and put it off-guard, at which point I can elbow it in the solar plexus and steal its lunch money. So it’s pretty much a win-win situation. And don’t worry; I won’t forget any of you. Once I have his wallet, the hot pretzels and Fanta are on me.
So to all of you - to all my family and friends and people I don’t really talk to but whose names I was far too lazy to go over and individually untick on my mailing list – allow me to indulge in one last CCAGG cliché before the dawn of the new era:
I wish you a Merry Christmas, a Chappy Chanukah, Diwali Wali Bing Bang, Kuul Eid and, Kwanzaa Kwanzaa Bo Banzaa Banana Fana Fo Fanzaa.
Actually, I think I’ll keep that part in but I will give you a chance to bid farewell to Mongo Santamaria, Ramón Novarro, Claus Von Bulow and Vincent “The Chin” Gigante, the Christmas Card à-Go-Go All Stars who, in the spirit of Change™, are appearing for the final time.
Oh, and of course, have certifiably awesome New Year.
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=zZMJpeI3ZCU&feature=related
*Yes he is. Don't try to get in on the action now. We didn't make up the rules. Look up the word "hypodescent".
Finally!
Well, I finally got myself organised and got my blog back online. I figured, why should I be the only opinionated, disgruntled geek in the whole world without a blog?
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