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How to Capture the Spirit of the Holidays

December 24, 2010 / posted in Graphically-Illustrated / Comments Off

If you know me really well, you probably know that I love Christmas. I love the songs, I love the decorations, I especially love the gifts — I wish I could have it all year ‘round! That’s why I feel inspired to offer this brief primer on how to capture the spirit of the holidays.

The first step is to decide on your priority: is it presents, or is it the Christmas roast? Of course, everybody loves presents, and the more the better, so it’s tempting to focus on that; but, often, it’s time with your family that’s the most memorable years later, and that often includes the delicious, gigantic roast that so many families enjoy this time of year.

Me, I’m a bit crazy for the idea of cooking this year — I think I’ll roast my first goose. Which is why I’m inclined to plan ahead and go for the capture earlier, rather than later. But, if you’re focused on gifts, you have a lot easier job, both in set-up and in what methods you use for the capture.

Really, if what you want is the gifts, the best strategy is to set up some fishing wire right outside the chimney flue. Then, Santa trips, and you just have to run out from behind the tree and hit him upside the head, and you can capture him and take the big bag of gifts.

lyinginwait

If you like, you can make it automatic, by the use of pulleys and assorted contraptions.

contraption

You can always go for the old narrow-the-chimney option. Just put a sleeve in there and wait for the fat man in red to get stuck. Wait a few days and he won’t put up any resistance as you go in and fish out that bag of gifts. Now, be warned that it’ll smell awful for a few days, but the payoff is gigantic.

stuck

There’s of course the sedative option; but then you have the challenge of anticipating Santa’s body weight and setting the dosage appropriately. After all, if his belly is shaking like a larger bowl full of jelly than usual, you just have an angry, dizzy old elf; if he’s slimmed down, per his HMO’s instructions (or does the North Pole have socialized medicine?), then you’re liable to put him down for good! No, that’s an approach best left to the anesthesiologists.

poison

Executing your plan in the comfort of your home is a great way to get yourself a big ‘ol bag of gifts. But, if you want more, then you should get more. If you tackle Santa’s whole sleigh, you stand to capture a whole lot more on a chilly Christmas evening! Of course, you’ve multiplied your level of difficulty by many times. I recommend booby-trapping your roof.

roof

If you choose this strategy, you get the delicious bonus of an unforgettable Christmas roast. I certainly couldn’t turn that down.

roast

Whatever way you go, I encourage you to capture the spirit of the holidays this year. Having Santa under your control will be a delightful reversal of fortune. Just please wait until after he’s come to my house, because I want my loot too. Don’t worry, I won’t keep him for myself; as you can plainly see from reading this, I’m already filled with the true spirit of the holiday.








The Time My Wife Almost Called the Cops On My Gas

December 11, 2010 / posted in Graphically-Illustrated, Otherwise Uncategorized / Comments Off

One of the things about being married is that one gets used to being disgusting as a single man and yet that’s somehow socially unacceptable once one grows up and enters matrimonial life. This creates a variety of challenges for us men, one of which is to figure out what to do with our farts.

This one night, I ate something that disagreed with me. We went to bed, and my wife went soundly to sleep, but I sat there, distended and fidgety, fighting my gas.

sleepbed

Several times, I got up and rushed over to the bathroom, hoping that would provide relief.

potty

But, no matter how much I hoped, I still ended up in the same spot: in bed, tossing and turning and clenching myself against all that gas.

sleepbed

Now, let me provide some context: we live in a house we rent. Behind this house, we have a big backyard. It’s preposterously big, actually; one of the main reasons we got the place. Behind that, there’s a big, 7- or 8-foot-tall wooden fence, separating us from an alley. It looks like this:

house

So, there we were, sleeping — or, half of us sleeping, the other half up and down to the bathroom.

ussleeping

Suddenly, there was a big clatter in the alley. Given the area and the time of night, it was probably homeless people having a few beers or maybe going through a trash can.

homeless

All of the racket woke Courtney from her deep sleep: she was scared, and not unreasonably, since noise like that always seems to be coming from right outside the window, not dozens of feet away, behind the tall, sturdy fence. I comforted her and she fell back to sleep. That’s comforted in the hugging and soothing words way! Get your head out of the gutter.

So, anyway, there we were, Courtney sleeping, me tired but distended and tumefied. It was late and dark and cold outside of our cozy bed. I didn’t want to get up. Finally, after a fidget in this direction, a fidget in that direction, I let it out. Ahhh, sweet relief. I smiled and relaxed for a moment.

ifarted

You all know that moment, you guys: it’s that moment after it feels great, before you smell it and you realize you won’t get away with it. Okay, everyone’s asleep, I’m bound to be home scot-free right? No! Suddenly Courtney’s eyes pop open. “Oh my god, what is that? Do you smell that?”

“It’s Jake. Jake!” I scold. Blaming the dog: it always works on TV! But Jake’s smart, he knows this smell is way beyond his pay grade. He doesn’t even move; he’s not taking the fall.

My wife knows it’s beyond his pay grade too. “That’s not Jake!” now she’s sitting up in bed, scared. “It’s the homeless men! They’re making weapons of mass destruction in the alleyway!” I’d forgotten about the clattering just a moment ago. Chemical weapons? My wife must have more exciting dreams than me. But she’s convinced. “Chemical weapons! We’ve got to call the police!”

courtneysfear

All of a sudden, my wife’s fumbling for her cell phone, about to call the police because of the incredible smell I’ve just created. The dog thing failed; I know there’s nothing to be done for it. I can wait for the cops to come and have them discover the odor’s restricted to the bedroom, or I can just ‘fess up now and get kicked off to the couch. I take my medicine. “It was me,” I croak shyly. Courtney’s mouth hangs open. “Oh my God, you did that? I was going to call Homeland Security!”

ifarted

And that’s how my wife almost called the cops on my gas. And how I learned, for the rest of that night at least, how to better take care of my bloated self:

potty








What Do Pets Do at Night?

October 14, 2007 / posted in Graphically-Illustrated, Junior / 1 Comment

The AIG has this wonderful little dog — let’s call him Seamus. Seamus is pretty much Perfect Dog — friendly, respectful, cuddly, well-behaved, slobber-free, possessed of incredible bladder control — but he’s also got these soulful eyes. And, if he has one weakness, it’s his stinginess with kisses. So, when he woke us with kisses this morning, and deep, downcast brown eyes, the question was: what happened to the poor thing last night’s treats and cozy climbing under the covers and this morning’s plaintive paean for approval?
There’s only one possible explanation: my talking pet whispered mean things all morning while we slept.
!/images/sadjake/meanjunior.png!
!/images/sadjake/jakeattacked.png!
!/images/sadjake/poorjake.png!
After all, how does a little dog protect himself against an animal who can talk? The poor thing is the only one in the whole household who can’t use words. And Junior is a crafty, crafty bird who knows a lot more words than he use — and takes advantage of that to use the exact, unexpected phrase at the right moment. I’m pretty sure he’s been doing just that to poor Seamus lately. Yesterday, for instance, Seamus and Junior were in my bedroom, while the AIG and I were fixing lunch; suddenly, Seamus barked, and when we checked the two out, Junior was looking very bashful in his cage, hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar-like.
What do you do when your parrot harasses your dog?















Memorialize Yourself, In Lucite

March 2, 2007 / posted in Graphically-Illustrated, Things To Avoid / 1 Comment

When I graduated from business school, I of course got the photos from the official photographer of me walking up to the podium in my mortarboard and of me shaking hands with some muckety-muck. I mean, the hired photog gets all the best angles, so there’s no fighting it. Some things, however, there should be fighting. Some things are so awful, so in bad taste, that they threaten to infect an entire room with their evil. And the official photographer is trying to pitch just such a thing. I give you the lucite statue that could be me:

Dear WADE,


Bob Knight Photo is pleased to offer a fun new way to display your special moments from graduation: Statuettes. A Statuette is your full-color image brought to life in a 3-D acrylic cut-out with a stand for display. Each statuette is unique due to our precision laser cutting technique. The flag pose and close-up pose work especially well for this product. It is perfect to sit on your desk or give as a special reminder of commencement!


We have arranged two convenient ways for you to place your
order for unique graduation photographs and products:

1. Order online today! Go to www.bobknightphoto.com! Your PIN is xxxx.
2. Call us at xxx-xxx-xxxx! We
have Customer Service Representatives ready to assist you with
your order.

Bob Knight Photo is proud to offer this service to you. If we can be of any further assistance, please contact us at xxx-xxx-xxxx.


Once again, congratulations on your achievement!


Sincerely,
The Staff at Bob Knight Photo
www.bobknightphoto.com


Copyright © 2006 Bob Knight Photo, Inc.
Images may not be reproduced without written permission.
Phone: 800-261-2576 | Fax: 850-574-0985 | E-mail: custserv@bobknightphoto.com


Click here to be removed from this mailing list.


I will see this horror in my dreams. In my dreams, folks. And please, let me ask you all, my readers, not to get lucite busts of yourselves made. It’s just, you know, in bad taste. Egads.















Us Birds Like Our Accustomed Perches

November 19, 2006 / posted in Graphically-Illustrated, Junior / 1 Comment

My dad’s screwing up my habits. I like sitting on my tree, grooming myself, then climb down to sit down on his lap while he sits on the couch. For two years, I’ve been able to cilmb to the low branch on my tree, tell him what a pretty bird I am, and get armpit scratchies from my dad, then climb down onto the couch and my dad’s lap and get kisses and scratches on the top of my wing. That’s just how I like it. But lately, he’s been sitting on the chair on the other side of my tree, and I don’t know how to get scratchies from him there!
When I’m a good bird and I talk nice, saying things like “pretty bird!” and “hello!” and “how are you?” my dad will take me out into the living room. This is what the living room looks like:
!/images/juniortree/thepanorama.jpg!
See, that’s my tree in the middle. I can sit on the top and groom myself and just hang out while my dad sits on the brown couch, which is what he always used to do. Then, I could climb down to see him:
!/images/juniortree/thesofa.jpg!
Look at that — there’s the low branch on the tree, the one I can climb on to so that dad can easily reach me to scratch me, the one that’s even low enough that I can climb from it onto the arm of the couch. I love that branch, it’s even low enough that if I say “gimme a kiss!” dad will lean over and kiss me.
The branch on the other side of the tree, however, is not as perfect. It’s too high, I can’t get all the way over to dad and he can’t reach up to scratch me there:
!/images/juniortree/thechair.jpg!
See, that’s just hard to get to. Plus, that was the branch I always went to when I wanted to be alone! You know, in the same room but alone. Maybe with the occasional “hello!” or a big stretch to say I was happy and comfy there, but didn’t need to cuddle. But now dad’s over on that side, in the chair, and it’s all wrong. I wish my dad would just go and sit in the couch again, but it seems like he’s a lot more comfortable on the chair with his computer on his lap; and since he’s been working on this blog and “his other blog”:http://wadearmstrong.com and that “Ruby on Rails thing”:http://rubyonrails.org he keeps on talking about so much, it seems like the chair is the best place for him.
So I guess that means I’d better either get used to going over to the other side of the tree, or dad has to move it. I hope he moves it! Maybe he could turn the tree around and put the low branch on the other side so that it’s easy to get to the chair? Of course then I’d have to figure out what to do about the couch, but, frankly, dad would probably be happy since I wouldn’t be able to climb down onto the couch and sneak up behind all the friends he brings home and climb onto their shoulders. Maybe he’ll read this blog entry and decide to try it!