I don’t know if all the recent news feeds about America raising a nation of obese children is true, but from the looks of things at the mall this past weekend, Santa’s gonna be opting for knee replacement surgery after Christmas.
One kid in line looked like an egg in a snowsuit. It took three elves and two recruits from Mall Security Special Forces to hoist him on to Santa’s lap. If that Humpty Dumpty had fallen off the wall, there’s not a frying pan in the kitchen at IHOP big enough to make an omelette with the remains.
And I don’t know what kind of insurance the Elves’ Union has, but I hope it’s not an HMO. It’s hard enough to get a letter of referral in the North Pole, much less finding an orthopedist with access to load bearing replacement joints.
Of course, Santa isn’t exactly a graduate of the Jillian Anderson school of fitness either. I don’t know what he does during the off season, but he might need to consider having one of the elves whip him up a Wii Fit for the North Pole break room. Before long he’s not going to need magic reindeer. He’s going to need a magic forklift with a widescreen GPS and axles that handle extra jolly loads.
And let’s get real. Who among us believes that any animal with a name like Dancer or Prancer is going to make the cut for a team of high-performance reindeer that has to fly around the world in one night? Those guys might make the top three on Dancing with the Stars, but they aren’t the go-to alpha males for endurance muscle.
I’ve checked all over Amazon.com to find the real story of Santa’s team, but the closest I found was Reindeer Games for Dummies featuring Rocky and Bullwinkle, which sounds a lot better than Prancer and Dancer. In the South, those are the sort of names that get you beat up every day at recess. Sooner or later these guys are going to have to bulk up or risk losing their Sponge Bob lunchboxes to disgruntled reindeer outcasts.
I’d like to peek into Reindeer School to see what sort of screening process is in place. Somewhere there’s a two-ton reindeer named Tiny belting back Budweisers and watching the Olympic Reindeer Games saying, “I could have been a contender.” That’s the sort of animal I want watching Santa’s back.
So you might want to stay in on Christmas Eve. When Biggie Claus mounts that sleigh like Paul Bunyan at the helm of his big blue ox and starts calling reindeer names at takeoff, you might be better off not knowing who they are. Guido might think you’re looking a little too longingly at the Hannah Montana doll in Santa’s bag. One peek at the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow and you could very well wind up in the Polar Protection Program.
Rest assured that come Christmas morning, all will be well. Because as sure as there’s not a mouse stirring in the land of Nod, there’s nobody better making sure a sleigh full of packages get to their destination overnight.
But make it easy on Santa and leave him a spot in the driveway. Those chimney landings are tough on the knees. And Prancer's already wearing a wrist brace for carpal tunnel.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Budweiser. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Budweiser. Show all posts
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Dog Days
While I chased word count, Son One, The Zombie Slayer, whiled away his time decapitating The Undead.
“I killed another one,” he announced in the same tone of voice Howard Cosell would say, “another knockout for Mohammed Ali.”
He gestured smugly toward the TV. “I cut his head off and he can’t see me. Now he’s wandering around the swamp attacking cattails.”
I left a participle dangling while I paused. You can kill the undead? I realize we’ve made great strides in modern medicine, but this seemed a bit farfetched, even with insurance.
I paused in my frenzied attack on the keyboard and peered at the television screen. Zombies were meandering about their virtual world, fencing with random inanimate objects. “Why don’t you finish him off?”
Meanwhile the headless nonhuman took a futile swing at some nearby foliage. A battle ensued during which the zombie filled the air with random slashes from a deadly blade before tripping over a strand of swamp grass.
“I can’t do it. He’s just too cute.”
This from the kid who teased me unmercifully when I cried at the Budweiser Clydesdale commercials. He also remained unmoved when the uncles took out the barn—and themselves—in the movie Secondhand Lions. But let a herd of headless zombies thrash about in the tall grass and his heart turns to mush.
I shrugged and returned to my composition. Everybody has a purpose. Mine is writing essays about unsuspecting family members. His is cleansing the world of the undead.
About that time the dog entered the room, circumnavigated the video game area like Magellan on a world tour, heaved a sigh, and collapsed on the floor at my feet. If he were a teenager he would have rolled his eyes and sighed, “There’s nothing to do in this house.”
I cleared my throat. “Back in the real world, the dog wishes someone would take him on a walk.”
Son One paused in the midst of mayhem. “I’d do it Mom, but I’m at a critical point. I must turn people into chickens.”
I saved my document and retrieved the big Lab’s leash from a hook near the door. “C’mon fella,” I said as he pulled himself up like the Kraken rising from the ocean floor.
About that time I heard frantic barking and saw a virtual dog run up to greet my son’s character onscreen. He was cute enough, but didn't have near the tail action that comes with a real life Labrador.
“You can play with a fake dog, but you can’t take your lifelong companion on a romp?”
“There’s a big difference, Mom.” Son One paused as he decapitated another zombie. This one doesn’t chew up my shoes if I forget to take him outside.
“Maybe not. But this one can leave surprises you can’t get off with a power blaster.”
Son One pushed a button and the screen went blank. He met the dog at the door and they disappeared down the driveway together. If the boy were canine, his tail would be wagging, too.
It just goes to show that you can always improve yourself with a little Lab work.
Happy Birthday, Ry.
“I killed another one,” he announced in the same tone of voice Howard Cosell would say, “another knockout for Mohammed Ali.”
He gestured smugly toward the TV. “I cut his head off and he can’t see me. Now he’s wandering around the swamp attacking cattails.”
I left a participle dangling while I paused. You can kill the undead? I realize we’ve made great strides in modern medicine, but this seemed a bit farfetched, even with insurance.
I paused in my frenzied attack on the keyboard and peered at the television screen. Zombies were meandering about their virtual world, fencing with random inanimate objects. “Why don’t you finish him off?”
Meanwhile the headless nonhuman took a futile swing at some nearby foliage. A battle ensued during which the zombie filled the air with random slashes from a deadly blade before tripping over a strand of swamp grass.
“I can’t do it. He’s just too cute.”
This from the kid who teased me unmercifully when I cried at the Budweiser Clydesdale commercials. He also remained unmoved when the uncles took out the barn—and themselves—in the movie Secondhand Lions. But let a herd of headless zombies thrash about in the tall grass and his heart turns to mush.
I shrugged and returned to my composition. Everybody has a purpose. Mine is writing essays about unsuspecting family members. His is cleansing the world of the undead.
About that time the dog entered the room, circumnavigated the video game area like Magellan on a world tour, heaved a sigh, and collapsed on the floor at my feet. If he were a teenager he would have rolled his eyes and sighed, “There’s nothing to do in this house.”
I cleared my throat. “Back in the real world, the dog wishes someone would take him on a walk.”
Son One paused in the midst of mayhem. “I’d do it Mom, but I’m at a critical point. I must turn people into chickens.”
I saved my document and retrieved the big Lab’s leash from a hook near the door. “C’mon fella,” I said as he pulled himself up like the Kraken rising from the ocean floor.
About that time I heard frantic barking and saw a virtual dog run up to greet my son’s character onscreen. He was cute enough, but didn't have near the tail action that comes with a real life Labrador.
“You can play with a fake dog, but you can’t take your lifelong companion on a romp?”
“There’s a big difference, Mom.” Son One paused as he decapitated another zombie. This one doesn’t chew up my shoes if I forget to take him outside.
“Maybe not. But this one can leave surprises you can’t get off with a power blaster.”
Son One pushed a button and the screen went blank. He met the dog at the door and they disappeared down the driveway together. If the boy were canine, his tail would be wagging, too.
It just goes to show that you can always improve yourself with a little Lab work.
Happy Birthday, Ry.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Top Ten Memorable Things About Being Pregnant
(I’m going from memory here. This is History, not Live at Five.)
1. Because you’re not famous, you don’t have a “bump.” You have a baby.
2. You finally have cleavage. And it’s not in the back!
3. You get to decorate the nursery – but nobody will let you lift, paint, or use harsh cleaners. Sweet. Interior design without the gruntwork. It's like ordering dinner from the Martha Stewart cookbook and instructing Martha to be gentle with the egg whites.
4. You cry over sentimental things like Budweiser commercials. Or because they’ve run out of Choco Tacos at the corner store.
5. The gas station before your exit has the bathroom key ready for you every morning at 7:30. And they remove the chain and tire iron it was originally attached to and replace them with a ribbon and a cookie.
6. Cravings – Like who doesn’t cross four lanes of rush hour traffic to peel into the Quick Stop for a Slim Jim?
7. Stressful things like, say, naps make you want to take a nap.
8. Getting so accustomed to giving urine samples, you feel the urge to empty your bladder every time you go down the Dixie Cup aisle at the grocery store. Sometimes you feel the urge after it’s too late.
9. Lying on your back for nine months like fried bologna on an open-face sandwich.
10. Your belly button pops out like the timer on a Butterball turkey when the baby’s done.
1. Because you’re not famous, you don’t have a “bump.” You have a baby.
2. You finally have cleavage. And it’s not in the back!
3. You get to decorate the nursery – but nobody will let you lift, paint, or use harsh cleaners. Sweet. Interior design without the gruntwork. It's like ordering dinner from the Martha Stewart cookbook and instructing Martha to be gentle with the egg whites.
4. You cry over sentimental things like Budweiser commercials. Or because they’ve run out of Choco Tacos at the corner store.
5. The gas station before your exit has the bathroom key ready for you every morning at 7:30. And they remove the chain and tire iron it was originally attached to and replace them with a ribbon and a cookie.
6. Cravings – Like who doesn’t cross four lanes of rush hour traffic to peel into the Quick Stop for a Slim Jim?
7. Stressful things like, say, naps make you want to take a nap.
8. Getting so accustomed to giving urine samples, you feel the urge to empty your bladder every time you go down the Dixie Cup aisle at the grocery store. Sometimes you feel the urge after it’s too late.
9. Lying on your back for nine months like fried bologna on an open-face sandwich.
10. Your belly button pops out like the timer on a Butterball turkey when the baby’s done.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
X-treme Reindeer Games--A Holiday Rant
Okay, let’s get real. Who among us believes that any animal with a name like Dasher or Dancer is going to make the cut for a team of high-performance reindeer that has to fly around the world in one night? Those guys might make the top three on Dancing with the Stars, but they aren’t the go-to alpha males for endurance muscle. I’ve checked all over Amazon.com to find the real story of Santa’s team, but the closest I found was Reindeer Games for Dummies featuring Rocky and Bullwinkle. In all honesty, Rocky would be a little more in character than a flying reindeer named Prancer. In the South, that’s the sort of name that gets you beat up every day at recess. By first graders. Who take your lunch money. And give you wedgies.
I’d like to peek into Reindeer School to see what sort of screening process is in place. Somewhere there’s a two-ton reindeer named Tiny belting back Budweisers and watching the Olympic Reindeer Games saying, “I could have been a contender.” That’s the sort of animal I want watching Santa’s back. When three wolverines and a hyena try to hijack Santa somewhere over the Great Plains, I want a reindeer that is not afraid to put his hoof down. So what if he needs a little hoof enhancement to get the job done? I haven’t resisted forwarding sappy e-mails and shoving my mouse through the blue screen of death on my computer all year just to see all my goodies go down some prairie dog’s hole. There’s a pound of chocolate covered cherries out there with my name on it, and I don’t want some sissy reindeer that doesn’t know his antler from his elbow trotting up to me with an empty box and a silly smile.
Let’s get some of these reindeer who are “big for their age” off of the sidelines and into the game. Rumors of spiced hay buffets ruined the careers of too many talented coursers. It doesn’t matter to me why Bruiser’s antlers can pick up television signals from three time zones away or that Buster has the biggest jingle bells in international sleigh team competition. I don’t even care that Barney has a rump roast you could play the Pro Bowl on. As long as there’s an A-Team that can get the old guy in red to my house, I don’t care if they’re swapping sips of carrot juice from a hip flask, although that does explain why Rudolph's nose lights up.
You might want to stay in on Christmas Eve. When S. Claus mounts that sleigh like Paul Bunyan at the helm of his big blue ox and starts calling reindeer names at takeoff, you might be better off not knowing who they are. Guido might think you’re looking a little too longingly at Santa’s bag. One peek at the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow and you could very well wind up in the Polar Protection Program. But at least Santa's annual ride will be protected by bodyguards with enough muscle to thwart sleighjacking attempts by children who are hopped up on dancing sugarplums. Just remember that when these guys say "Dash away all," they mean "in a twinkling" and not a moment later. And don't go laying a finger aside of your nose. Vinnie the Reindeer might get the wrong idea.
I’d like to peek into Reindeer School to see what sort of screening process is in place. Somewhere there’s a two-ton reindeer named Tiny belting back Budweisers and watching the Olympic Reindeer Games saying, “I could have been a contender.” That’s the sort of animal I want watching Santa’s back. When three wolverines and a hyena try to hijack Santa somewhere over the Great Plains, I want a reindeer that is not afraid to put his hoof down. So what if he needs a little hoof enhancement to get the job done? I haven’t resisted forwarding sappy e-mails and shoving my mouse through the blue screen of death on my computer all year just to see all my goodies go down some prairie dog’s hole. There’s a pound of chocolate covered cherries out there with my name on it, and I don’t want some sissy reindeer that doesn’t know his antler from his elbow trotting up to me with an empty box and a silly smile.
Let’s get some of these reindeer who are “big for their age” off of the sidelines and into the game. Rumors of spiced hay buffets ruined the careers of too many talented coursers. It doesn’t matter to me why Bruiser’s antlers can pick up television signals from three time zones away or that Buster has the biggest jingle bells in international sleigh team competition. I don’t even care that Barney has a rump roast you could play the Pro Bowl on. As long as there’s an A-Team that can get the old guy in red to my house, I don’t care if they’re swapping sips of carrot juice from a hip flask, although that does explain why Rudolph's nose lights up.
You might want to stay in on Christmas Eve. When S. Claus mounts that sleigh like Paul Bunyan at the helm of his big blue ox and starts calling reindeer names at takeoff, you might be better off not knowing who they are. Guido might think you’re looking a little too longingly at Santa’s bag. One peek at the moon on the breast of the new fallen snow and you could very well wind up in the Polar Protection Program. But at least Santa's annual ride will be protected by bodyguards with enough muscle to thwart sleighjacking attempts by children who are hopped up on dancing sugarplums. Just remember that when these guys say "Dash away all," they mean "in a twinkling" and not a moment later. And don't go laying a finger aside of your nose. Vinnie the Reindeer might get the wrong idea.
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