|He sees you when you're sleeping. |
He knows when you're awake.
It's behavior like this which got Mr. Mraz arrested.
The following is a repost, sort of. Actually, it’s more of a condensed version of a post I foisted upon you two years ago. And then again last year. I figured that, since nobody read it in 2010, I may as well give it another try in 2011. But, after reading it, I realized it was too long and whittled it down. It’s probably still too long. Sorry.
The following is a true story (as far as you know) of a Penwasser Christmas set in the late sixties/early seventies. Sometime around then. Give me a break. It was a long time ago.
Christmas was always a big deal at our house.
Starting immediately after Thanksgiving, we began the big run up to the most wonderful time of the year, not counting Flag Day.
As much fun as getting ready for Christmas was, December 25th was actually what we were all waiting for.
|"Included at no extra charge, a color wheel |
with all the primary colors!
|"Hey, you people even think |
the Partridge Family could sing.
And Liberace isn't gay."
We tossed and turned all evening. To pass the time, we mortified our sister by making fart noises under our armpits.
|Make a joyful noise unto the Lord |
this blessed Christmas Eve.
“Santa’s here!” my brother, Gary, gasped.
Straining my ears, I heard the muffled sound of rustling paper. Even so, I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. It was only when I heard a sharp bang followed by a string of colorful holiday expressions of goodwill that I knew the magic of Christmas had arrived.
Reassured, I happily closed my eyes.
What seemed like seconds later, I was rudely awakened. “C’mon,” Gary excitedly cried, “Santa Claus came last night!”
He seemed genuinely surprised. Where had he been all these weeks? Of course Santa Claus came last night! Who’d he expect, Nixon?
We bounded downstairs to a dazzling rainbow of presents beneath our garish tin pole. Quickly diving into the pile, we were brought up short by a shrill, “Nobody opens anything until your father and I get there!”
Thus admonished, we nervously perched on the edge of our avocado and gold couch. It seemed an eternity until our parents trudged like zombies into the living room.
Coming out of her narcoleptic daze, Mom gushed, “Wow! What happened? Did Santa come?” (Amazingly, she sounded as shocked as my brother. What was it with these people? Did they all have brain damage?).
Oblivious to her amazement, my father silently nodded.
|"Hand it over nice and easy, fat boy. |
Nobody needs to lose a finger here."
After we had torn open our presents, our parents announced that it was time for church. After all, what says Christmas more than sitting uncomfortably on wooden pews and splashing each other in the face with water from the petri dishes disguised as holy water fonts?
Despite the fact that Snooki makes more appearances at Mensa meetings than the Penwassers at Mass, we were “going, goddammit!” So, after exchanging footie pajamas for swanky “Dad N Lad” ensembles and hideous frocks of a color not found in nature, off we sped in the family Batmobile to Saint Stanislaus.
Upon arrival-five minutes late-my father ushered us into the very last pew. “That way,” he whispered, “we can beat the traffic.”
|"Are you sure Bethlehem is that way? |
You stupid bastard,
why don't you ask for directions?"
Before you could say “Dominus Nabisco,” we were knocking down old Slovak ladies to get out the door.
Once home, we joyfully returned to our toys, although now we wanted to see how creative we could get. For instance, G.I. Joe didn’t fare too well in the Vietcong EZ Bake Oven. We also discovered that, if you removed the rubber suction cups, toy arrows sharpen up real nice.
Meanwhile, Mom merrily prepared the “Holiday Feast.” The star of the show was, of course, the turkey, which had been mummifying in the oven the past two days. Its aroma filled the house with flavor and its burning grease flooded the kitchen with smoke.
|"And Icelanders eat sheep heads. |
Makes you appreciate me a little more doesn't it?"
|"Did someone say 'blood' pudding?"|
|"No, seriously. How about that blood pudding?"|
|"What good is a 'kung fu grip' |
if that damn oven melted my junk off?'
As afternoon dragged toward evening, our eyelids grew heavy. Our early morning rampage had finally caught up with us and, chocolate-fueled frenzy notwithstanding, we were sliding closer to sleep.
Through lidded eyes, I remember my father lurching toward the kitchen. Before I lapsed into a food coma, I heard a faint, “Boy, I sure could use a turkey sandwich with Miracle Whip.”
Followed by a harsh string of colorful holiday expressions of goodwill as he found one of our pointed wooden arrows.
“Hey,” Gary mumbled as he drifted off to sleep, “Santa’s back.”