So I woke up this morning, came downstairs, went in the living room and saw an old fat man crouched in front of the chimney. I asked him what he was up to, and he said for the last few weeks he's been watching little boys and girls while they're sleeping. Naturally, I called the police and now all the neighbors are saying I ruined Christmas.
I didn't ruin Christmas, people. Commercialism has ruin-- Oh, no need to go there, not today, not here. For the seven of you who have inexplicably logged onto AN today (addictive, aren't we? "AN: Now with extra nicotine for a smooth finish!" Ever notice that nicotine starts with "nico"? Coincidence? Well, obviously.), I wish you a Merry Christmas, or Happy Channukah, or Blessed Kwanzaa, or Feliz Navidad, or Happy Festivus -- a donation has been made in your name to the Internet Fund.
For me, Winter Break means time to write fall semester reports, as I stuff each child's stocking with a brand-new euphemism. Why we don't just say what needs to be said, in plain English, is beyond me, but we don't. So instead of saying, "Your child is the poster boy for ADD; you might want to look into that," we say things like -- and this time, I'm actually quoting, word for word, one of my 6th grade reports -- "(He) has some work to do to harness his nomadic nature and show he is following the discussion and not just the pencil sharpener, the tape, and other common destinations." That paint a picture for ya, Momzer? Daddarooney?
Honestly, the more I teach, the more I find myself in favor of medication. I don't think kids should take any, though.
Today marks birthdays 52, 80, and 2,043 for Rickey Henderson, my dad, and Jesus Christ, respectively. There has to be something that links all three of them, but I can't think of what it might be and whether or not Kevin Bacon is involved.
Yet again Christmas Day comes and goes, and no pony. This is becoming a disturbing trend.
The trend of bloggers writing short paragraphs troubles me too.
If you stopped by to read this, go ahead and throw a comment down. Tell us about your Aunt Bertha and the sloppy kisses you almost -- but not quite -- managed deftly to avoid this year, or about your vacation travels
through Europe sleeping in an airport for three nights, or about the dream you had where Bud Selig ordered that Adrian Beltre be cut in half lengthwise and shared between the A's and , and all Beltre had to say about it when he saw the axe was, "Oh you are NOT touching the top of my head with that thing." By the way, if such a deal does come to pass I'm calling it first: We get the testicle on weekends.
Now go ignore your family!