Ten Lessons From My Atlanta Christmas Trip

by Thomas M. Pender

10)          One-way streets really confound your ability to find something, even with a map

9)            Nicer hotels have everything at the front counter, including a wide variety of phone chargers

8)            Actual buffets of hot breakfast foods (which change from day to day for variety) beat continental breakfasts, hands down!

7)            Some hotels believe that being situated in Georgia automatically means the air conditioning units should be on 24/7/365 (366 in a leap year)!

6)            It’s now the 21st Century, but too many human beings still don’t know that people need to come out of the elevator before they can get in

5)            It is possible to get several sets of directions to a McDonald’s, which everyone seems to know the location of, but walk right past it . . . twice

4)            The most inexpensive rings can make for the most romantic engagement rings

3)            Giant red balls make for a great route marker

2)            If you’re going to turn the wrong way onto a multi-laned major city street, be sure to do it at 5:30 a.m., when the majority of drivers are still in bed

and

1)            Regardless of calendar dates, being with the love of your life after too long a geographical separation makes any day Christmas!

The Nightmare Before Christmas

by Thomas M. Pender

An old favorite returns.  You'll notice at the bottom that this poem has a dual copyright year.  This is because I originally wrote this silly romp in December 1988, but over the years I have misplaced any and every copy I ever had.  So have the people who had copies.  After running out of ideas to recover the original, I sat down this week with the original text of "A Visit From St. Nicholas" and simply reconstructed my parody.  It was pretty easy overall, since it was always a line-by-line parody, but I know some small parts are different, so I can't claim it's the original.  Still, it was fun to "rewrite."  I hope my goofier (and grosser?) readers will get a Christmas kick out of this one.  Ho ho ho, indeed!  (P.S., I came up with the title five or ten years before Tim Burton.  I can't sue because you can't "steal" a title, but just wanted my readers to know that I dreamed it up on my own.)

‘Twas the night before the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, ‘cept for me and my spouse;

The stockings were thrown up, quite crooked with no flair,

In haste, ‘cause the relatives soon would be there!

The children were tousled, all twisted in their beds,

While terrors of great-grandmas lurked in their heads

And the Mrs. in her work clothes, and I in my pants,

Had just settled down, ‘cause we got half a chance;

When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what the hell was the matter!

Away to the window I flew like a plane,

Damaged the shutters, and stuck my nose to the pane.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave a luster of midday . . . so the neighbors got a show!

When what to my irritated eyes should appear

But my brother-in-law, and his roommate (the queer)

Their eyes how bloodshot, their tongues how thick

I knew in a moment I was going to be sick

More obnoxious than salesmen, these assholes they came

They knocked down our Santa, and slurred out our names:

“Hey, Rita!  Hey, Mickey!  It’s Chuck and it’s Bill!

At our holiday party, we had more than our fill.

We’ve been driving all night, going bar to bar;

We were heading on home, but only made it this far.”

Then up on the housetop, his cohort we heard

Stumbling on our shingles, so I flipped him the bird

Then in a twinkling I heard on the roof

The stumble of a drunkard (the noise was the proof!)

As I drew in my head, and was turning around

Down the chimney Chuck fell with much damage and sound

He was covered in ashes and grime, slime and dirt;

He had garbage in his pockets, and food on his shirt.

A string of my Christmas lights he wore down his back,

And he looked like a douchebag I’d love to attack!

His eyes, how unfocused; his pimples, how many

And as far as cab fare, I could tell he didn’t have any.

His limp, slobbering mouth moved painfully slow,

And the beard on his chin was soggy with snow;

The stump of a cork he held tight in his teeth,

And a stench encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a fat face, and a large exposed belly

That had stains upon it of mustard and jelly.

He was unshaven and balding; a right ugly old elf,

And I cried when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A roll of his eyes, and a drop of his head

Soon gave me to know I’d never get to bed!

He spoke not a clear word, but went straight to his work:

He stumbled and broke my TV, the jerk!

And laying a finger straight up his nose

And cutting a fart, he peed in his clothes.

Cops sprang into action, and to me gave a ticket,

Then hauled ass back out, without taking either dickhead.

I explained to my wife in a note I did write:

“I’ve had it.  I took the car.  Merry Christmas.  Good night!”

written by t. michael pender, 12/22/88 and 12/24/11

©1988, 2011 T. Michael Pender.  All rights reserved.

Shock Treatment, or The Quickest Way To Halt Prying Co-Workers

by Thomas M. Pender 

Landing smack in the middle of the Bible Belt in 1999, I learned right away that the area got that name because the citizens literally carried Bibles around in their belts.  At my first job in Georgia, we got one 10-minute break in the morning, a lunch hour, and a 15-minute break in the afternoon.  By this, I mean everyone in the small company went on break at the same set times.  It was no shock to me on my first day that all the smokers immediately stood up and scurried outside like a herd of antsy buffalo.  The shock came when the remaining non-smokers brought out the scriptures!

Now, for the record, I am a Christian, and a good one.  God and Jesus and I get along just fine.  I even go to see them in church.  Forgive me, however, if I got the absolute willies when I looked around a place of business and saw person after person after person reading the Bible.  I wasn’t sure which would be less uncomfortable: going outside to watch people smoke, or sitting neck-deep in the dogma.  One person on my first day even took the time – in my first five minutes on the job, mind you – to invite me to the daily lunchtime Bible study in the conference room.

That’s okay.  You go right along and tell Moses and the gang I said “hi.”  (Shudder)

It took a month or so to really settle into this new atmosphere, but settle I did.  I worked next to two young ladies who were avid Jesus-break-takers.  As long as they didn’t try to coax or sell their Stepfordness to me, I didn’t curse or tell off-color jokes, and we got along just fine.  Both ladies were African-American, as was the woman in the small picture frame on my computer monitor, so I got lots of questions about how we met and if we were getting married and having babies.  This, too, was fine.

That December, after I’d been at the job for seven months, we were all lazing about in the last ten minutes of the last workday before the long Christmas weekend.  The ladies got into a conversation of all the baking they’d be doing, and bragging on their secret family recipes.  Out of nowhere, one of the hyper-Christian ladies next to me segues from a chocolate-infused recipe into referencing my personal life by saying, “That’s not all Tom likes that’s chocolate!”  The ladies giggled . . . for a second.

Not expecting anything near the unchurchlike comment which was thrown out, yet unshaken, I very simply raised one eyebrow, looked the Bible-thumper straight in the eye and replied, “Yep.  Chocolate tastes better.”  After the chuckling shut off to pin-drop silence, I shrugged and said, “Hey, you brought it up.”

Lessons: If you’re going to be a pious Christian, be a pious Christian.  If you’re going to try to embarrass someone with rather non-Jesus topics, expect some sort of reaction.  Lastly, and most importantly, one should never try to embarrass me.  I embarrass back.

Ten Wishes For Christmas 2011

by Thomas M. Pender

 

10)          World peace will come . . . and shut the politicians up about at least one major topic!

9)            Jesus will visit . . . and shut the atheists up completely!

8)            The cure for taxes will be found

7)            The cure for writer’s procrastination will be found

6)            I will inherit the state of Colorado, shoo all non-family and non-friends out, rope it off, and dub it Penderado

5)            At least one company with at least one well-paying writing and/or editing job will see my resume and immediately pitch the others

4)            Firefly will return

3)            The world will get completely over reality TV

2)            All music forms that rhyme with “crap” or “junk” will be declared such, and outlawed

and

1)            (My biggest three-part wish is reserved for my Trini and me) :-P

Caroliteraoke: A Mock "Review"

by Thomas M. Pender

Last year at this time, I performed in a local Macon event entitled "Caroliteraoke."  This was a holiday version of "Literaoke," which had become a local phenomenon of folks performing literal analyses of rather ridiculous song lyrics.  Inspired by author Steve Almond's original skewering of Toto's "Africa," this comical performance practice is enjoyable to write, perform and hear.  Being Christmastime, I thought it would be timely to reprint my "review" of the lyrics in "Rubber Chicken Soup."

You don't have to be familiar with this rather obscure Elton John song to grasp the writing, just follow along and enjoy.  However, if you wish to listen to the original tune before, during or after reading, it can be found on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iXP5OXm3v8k.

HO! HO! HO! (Who’d Be A Turkey At Christmas)

by Elton John and Bernie Taupin

An open letter to Elton John and Bernie Taupin, entitled simply “How Not To Get A Visit From St. Nicholas”:

Christmas is a time of giving.  Of joy.  Of Santa Claus.  Or, for you Brits who can’t seem to follow the superior traditions of your more successful offshoot country, “Father Christmas.”  Here’s a guy who takes it upon himself to provide all the world’s people with free gifts every Christmas morning.  To accomplish this, he must get around the world and visit every house in the span of an evening.  This is a pretty great thing.  Something that deserves thanks.

The song "Ho! Ho! Ho! (Who'd Be A Turkey At Christmas)" is NOT a great “thank you” card!  Let’s review:

Sitting here on Christmas Eve

With a brandy in my hand

Right out of the gate, we’ve established that you’re drinking.  This song was, in fact, penned and recorded during Elton and Bernie’s infamous drinking days.  So, in short, nothing we learn from you from here on out is trustworthy, or should be taken to heart.  A truly magnanimous warning.  To continue:

Oh, I’ve had a few too many

And it’s getting hard to stand

Now, Mr. Taupin and Mr. John, you have upped the ante, by informing us that you are so wasted, vertical maintenance has been breached.  Again I submit, and now with even more rigorous fervor, the two of you should not be trusted to convey accurate information.  A mere four lines into this ditty, I’m already wondering why it was written, why it was recorded, and why I’m still listening to it.  Frankly, I think it’s the giggling, babbling elves and the obviously schnockered background screechers.  I don’t know where this song is taking me, but I do know that I’m going to enjoy witnessing the wreck at the end of the journey.

Next:

I keep hearing noises

From my fireplace

I must be going crazy

Or the brandy’s won the race

I concur.  If you are, in fact, hearing noises from your fireplace – and we assume here that either it is not the crackle of a hearty fire, or that your blood-alcohol level has reached such proportions as to render you incapable of recognizing the sounds coming from a standard fireplace – that you have indeed lagged behind brandy in the Christmas Derby.  Speaking of your hops-inspired hearing impairment:

And I keep hearing

Ho Ho Ho!  Guess who’s here?

Your fat and jolly friend draws near

Ho Ho Ho!  Surprise, surprise!

The bearded weirdie’s just arrived

I say “Halt,” gentlemen.  We’ve established that the singer is home (or, at least, he believes he’s at his house) on Christmas Eve.  He is hearing someone (physically present or not) saying particular phrases.  Now, if we give enough credit to this soused troubadour, we can say he has established that it is Santa Claus’ weaker cousin Father Christmas who is arriving to distribute gifts.  To me, one of the last things one should do upon learning that someone has arrived at his house to give out freebies is to insult him!  Here, the slosher – er, the singer – has already called Papa Christmas “fat” and a “bearded weirdie,” while somehow attempting to make up for this slap in the face with a lame “jolly” tag.  Well, I don’t know about Daddy Christmas, but with the Star-Spangled Santa Claus, this behavior will earn you a healthy-sized briquette in your stocking!

On my roof there’s snorting sounds

And bells inside my head

My vision’s blurred with colour

And all I see is red

Being a literature buff, I’ve always enjoyed the writing device of symbolism.  Not one to assume or accuse, nor even to imply, I do find it interesting that someone in the music business would use the word “snorting” in a song that involves, to some degree, “snow.”  Perhaps it’s not the brandy that’s causing the slosher to see and hear assorted yuletidian images, if-you-know-what-I-mean!

There’s a pair of large-sized Wellies

Coming down my flue

And the smell of burning rubber

Oh, is filling up the room

Okay, a wee bit of American translation is needed here.  “Wellies” is a common Brit term for Wellington boots, which are big, bulky, shiny black boots one could safely associate with Father Santa.  However, without this knowledge, it makes the stanza vague at best, and deliberately confounding at worst.  Was this song written with the intent to only be distributed in Merry Old England?  Or did the creators feel that foreigners didn’t deserve an explanation?  Without one, we are left to wonder why the smell of burning rubber is filling up the room!  And if you do know what it means, you are horrified by the realization that someone in the household – drunk or otherwise – has lit a fire in the fireplace, on the very night that Santa Christmas is due to drop down that particular architectural orifice.  Presents, you say?  “Like hell,” Pop Claus retorts, as he shinnies his way out of the brick birth canal to leap into his sleigh and tear out of this alcoholic’s abode!  As if to overemphasize how plastered and how ignorant he is, the singer actually repeats the insulting chorus:

And we keep hearing

Ho Ho Ho!  Guess who’s here?

Your fat and jolly friend draws near

Ho Ho Ho!  Surprise, surprise!

The bearded weirdie’s just arrived

So, as he has insulted the world’s nicest person this side of The Easter Bunny, virtually guaranteeing he will never again receive another solitary Christmas gift, he rebelliously kicks it home with more name-slinging.  Now, that takes guts!

All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Back Teeth

by Thomas M. Pender

I’ve lived in Macon, Georgia for 12 years.  In that time, I have had two rear molars yanked out of my head.  I see a cause-and-effect issue here.  With the rampant toothlessness in the South, I believe I’ve stumbled upon a geographic germ.  Aside from my wisdom teeth, I had every tooth given to me by God when I entered Georgia.  Now, I am two short of a full set.

However, it’s not Georgia that I find rantworthy.  It’s the medieval elements of “modern” dentistry.

I’ve never been afraid to go to the dentist.  This probably has to do with being blessed with trouble-free adult teeth.  I go, I get x-rayed, cleaned, and then I leave.  Dentistry is my friend.

Then, a few years ago, I dozed off on my couch.  In a few unconscious minutes, I was awakened by searing pain in my jaw.  I narrowed the daggers down to one tooth, and made an appointment to see a dentist.  At the office, I was asked if my tooth was sensitive to cold.  When I informed the dentist that cold water actually dulled the pain, he winced and told me that was bad news.  It wasn’t a simple toothache, it was a problem down in the nerves.  Long tooth story short, I had to get it pulled.

This is the 21st Century.  We have moved beyond hammers and chisels in doctors’ offices.  Techniques and instrumentation now make it relatively comfortable for patients during complicated procedures.  Unfortunately, the century has apparently left dentistry in the dust of the 1800s.

After I got two shots of Novocaine, the dentist turned around for the next implement and brought out . . . a pair of pliers!  Oh, sure, it was a nice, new, shiny pair of pliers.  It was a sleek design, curved at the end with a tooth-shaped compartment at the tip, but it was a pair of pliers, nonetheless.  She positioned the neuvo-pliers over my tooth, and as she braced to yank, I started waving my arms all about.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I can feel everything you’re doing,” I responded, thinking the Novocaine allotment had been a bit sparse.  She gave me a third shot and waited a few minutes for it to kick in.  Then she re-assumed the yanking position.  I again waved my arms.

“I can feel everything you’re doing!” I injected (pun intended), my vocal words in italics.

“Oh, well, you’re going to feel some pressure.”

As most dental patients know, “pressure” is dentist code for “searing, excruciating pain.”  I felt the tooth slide out of its socket, and by the end of that day, my pain was gone.

Years later, without the nap inducer, I began to feel a toothache on the opposite molar of my lower jaw.  It intensified, and I made an appointment at the local dental college.  (Side note: Dental colleges are great for procedures, as they are highly skilled and very inexpensive.)  This set of pliers weren’t even disguised as a sleek Porsche of the dental world.  This was a straight Chevy Nova of the dental world.  I swear I saw the Craftsman logo on the side!  The pain, this time due to an infection, left with the tooth, and I was grateful even for the toolbox implement at that point.

Still, I call upon the dental engineers of the world (if, indeed, dental engineers exist) to come up with something a bit – or a ton – more concentrated on the comfort of patients.  I don’t care if it’s based on hydraulics or digital photography or astrology, but for the love of all that is good and merciful in the world, please, dentistry, invent something that replaces the pliers!

I mean now!  Go.  Research.  Design.  Get it done.

Now!!!!!!