Dear Santa

Dear Santa:
   It's okay that you didn't bring me what I asked for last Christmas.  I don't really know how much a metric ton is - it just sounded like a lot, and having that many Pop Tarts in your sled would probably give Donner a hernia anyway.
   Instead of adding to your paperwork this year, I thought you might want to see some of the paperwork I've run across lately.  Most of it has very little to do with Christmas, but I figure you're probably pretty tired of that stuff by now.
   Here's a Season's greeting I got from a politically correct friend on FB.

   I don't really know what politically correct means anymore, (nor does anyone else, I think,) but it's nice to know that while you, Baby Jesus, menorahs, and Kwanzaa stuff didn't make the cut, Rudolf's buddy the Abominable Snowman is still (temporarily) acceptable.
   People send me a lot of stuff about punctuation.  Did they have that back when you were in school?  It's something I don't do very well and I guess people think it's important.

   I don't get it - where else are you supposed to hunt pedestrians?

   This is why I avoid the doctor.

   If your name is John, any letter you're going to get is a dear John letter anyway.
   I know you'll be working all night on Wednesday.  Here's a helpful scribble someone sent me to help you stay awake.

   You don't want to nod off when traveling a million miles a second, or whatever it is you have to go to deliver toys to 2 billion households in one night.  Speaking of travel, here's a little home-make bingo card someone sent me.

  If you get bored you can play bingo with Dasher - or is it Blitzen you're closest to?  I know the order of your drive train, but no idea if it's front to back or back to front.
   You being kid oriented, I figured you might want to see a list from one that wasn't asking you for something.  Somebody sent me this answer from her kid's test.

   Pretty funny, huh?  This year's bears lost two games to NFC South teams, they couldn't eat a Green Bay cheese hat.
   Well that's it for me.  Bring some Pop Tarts on Wednesday if you remember and maybe we can pop in a movie if you've got the time.  You know what I'll be doing, writing novels and blog posts with visions of publishing deals dancing in my head.
   Merry Non-Denominational Winter-time Goings-on to you, Santa.
   Your friend, Headley.

   I don't know if you should put so much rum in your eggnog this year, Santa.

Tale of Two Seasons

So… Holiday Season, Huh?

I borrowed from the local library that timeless Holiday treat, the Ken Burns Documentary, Baseball.

Shoot me – Christmas is not my favorite season.

It being early December, I found the two themes merging - especially as Burn’s depiction of the steroid scandals produced visions of sugar-pills dancing in my head.

Deck the Arms with THG

by Headley Hauser

Tis the season to hit homers

falalalala lala la la

Be a star and not a roamer

falalalala lala la la

Practice hard and toil and lug more

falalalala lala la la

Of send your agent to the drug store

falalalala lala la la

Deck your arms with THG

falalalala lala la la

Hit thirty homers instead of three

falalalala lala la la

Erasing marks from by-gone ages

falalalala lala la la

Clubhouse full of steroid rages

falalalala lala la la

 

We are now the mighty gloved ones

falalalala lala la la

Who cares if we beat our loved ones

falalalala lala la la

Some complain about our stat-ploy

falalalala lala la la

Wouldn’t want to be the bat boy

falalalala lala la la

Let’s be fair, PADs (performance affecting drugs) are as American as marijuana brownies, and a constant part of baseball tradition. Dwight Gooden (and the 86 Mets)

couldn’t have beaten my beloved Red Sox without their white powder. Until recent decades, chewing tobacco was practically issued to every ballplayer, not only to calm their nerves at the plate, but to give spitballs that little something extra. Booze was such an important part of the game that several teams were owned by beer barons. Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle got so wasted that they weren’t even hung over until the 7^th inning stretch.

So let’s stop being so hypocritical and embrace our chemically pumped heroes of the last generation. Heck, put a statue of Balco in the Hall of Fame.

We wish you a Merry Andro

We wish you a Merry Andro

We wish you a Merry Andro

And a bottle of clear

You’ll play like a dream

Long as you use the cream

We wish you a Merry Andro

And a bottle of clear.

As far as Christmas is concerned – you think a few ho-ho-hos enable “eight tiny reindeer” to push a fat man and several billion toys around the earth in less than 24 hours?

 

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