In Persuit of Christmas Spirit

Maybe it’s the economy, the trouble overseas, the election, or what happened to Heroes but for whatever reason, Christmas spirit had eluded me this year. No matter how many tall Starbucks Peppermint Mocha’s I ordered, I simply could not seem to get into the mood of the season. Though wreaths, lights, snowflakes, and mistletoe adorned nearly every non-Temple location I frequented, my soul seemed to simply reject Christmas as a concept. And I for one am a person who always looks forward to the Christmas season. Once August hits, I start sort-of mentally counting down if not the days, definitely the months. So now, it had arrived, and I was about to let another Christmas season pass, only to get excited about it next August. Something had to change. Now.

Fortunately, my search for a next plan of action coincided with basic cable’s scheduling of the classic Christmas specials – Rudolph, Frosty, and the like. Finally, I was stricken with a flash of brilliance while watching The (non-Jim Carry) Grinch. How does the title character in that one achieve his arch from surly old humbug to joyful Christmas junkie? The answer is in the damn title – he steals Christmas! Surely this was the answer I was looking for! All I’d have to do was steal a town’s presents, decorations, and food on Christmas Eve, and wait for the next morning, when I’d see them holding hands and singing, despite their material losses. Only then would I realize that the true spirit of Christmas is not in the presents at all, my heart would grow three sizes, I’d return the presents and thus be heralded as a hero, cut the roast beast and boom – Christmas spirit. The plan seemed so simple, so devious, so perfect.

I started quickly making arrangements. First, I needed a Santa suit. Up until that point in my life, I had not been much of a sewer, so I thought a red t-shirt, some black jeans, and a construction-paper beard would do the trick. It would be dark anyway. Second, the prospect of stealing Christmas from an entire town seemed a tad ambitious, so with the lack of a Who-ville to rob, I figured the St. Peter’s Foster Orphanage For the Near-Retarded would be just as good. I Mapquested the place as soon as I could and planned to creep out that Christmas Eve night around 10 PM. I obviously had no sled, so my 1993 Eagle Vision would have to suffice. I grabbed a couple Hefty bags (“Christmas Sacks”) from my garage to package the loot and drove off in search of Christmas spirit.

I parked down the road from St. Peter’s Foster Orphanage For the Near-Retarded, and walked to the old-timey building, dressed head-to-toe in my makeshift Chris Cringle outfit of course. Now, how to get in? Obviously I was not going down the chimney, that much I knew. It was on to plan A – the front door. I sauntered up, with my giant Christmas Sack in tow, but alas the door was locked. Fortunately, I had an ace up my sleeve, and smashed the adjacent window with a nearby rock. Boom – I was in. Luckily, everyone seemed to be asleep upstairs, and the lights were all off. I passed through the foyer and dining room before finally entering the living room where the tree and presents were displayed.

The presents were few, as the foster home was obviously not the wealthiest, but that was alright as it would save some stealing time. I could definitely spot something shaped like a toy train, which I tossed into my Christmas Sack, followed by what felt like a new Barbie, a board game, and an iTouch. Suddenly, one of the boxes moved. I looked towards the one at my feet and sure enough, it had holes poked into it. I peered inside and there staring back at me was an adorable lab puppy, intended for (according to the tag) “The Entire Foster Family”. I threw it into the Christmas Sack with all the others. Having packed up all the presents, I started on the decorations, tearing down every inch of garland, every strand of lights, and every last homemade popsicle stick ornament. As I pillaged, my head filled with visions of growing hearts, roast beast, and the joy that only comes with being touched on Christmas morning when you realize it’s not about the presents. With some extra room in The Sack, I headed upstairs and raided the children’s prescription medicine cabinet. If missing his diabetes medicine didn’t show little Peter the true meaning of Christmas, surely nothing will.

As I packed up the final trimmings in the living room, I heard the pitter-patter of a child’s footsteps. I turned and there stood a little girl who could not have been more than four, staring up at me with an innocent wonderment. “Why Santa? Why are you taking our tree?” she asked with an adorable squeak. At first, I was amazed that anyone would find this to be a convincing Santa suit, but then I remembered that she was near-retarded. “And why did you take all our presents?” she continued. I frantically started reaching, thinking of a believable story. Sadly, I could come up with nothing, but I came prepared. She was nothing a little chloroform-soaked handkerchief couldn’t handle.

As I looked around, satisfied with the thievery of Christmas I had just performed, I stashed the loot in the canned-goods pantry. This would allow easy access when I heroically come out after being emotionally touched by their respective Christmas spirit, and distribute the heretofore stolen gifts. I then staked a position in the nearest bathroom, which connected into the living room. It would only be a few hours before these children would wake up and experience the joy of Christmas. I could hardly wait – finally I would feel some damn Christmas spirit. It was about time.

A few hours later, I awoke from an excited doze to the sound of children rummaging upstairs. Surely they were waking their foster mother so they could all go downstairs and bask in Christmas spirit! I anxiously awaited as the first child came downstairs. He was so full of innocent wonder and joy, as though he had been looking forward to this morning for months. As though this was the only thing he had to look forward to in his life. It was precious. His broad, baby-toothed smile shone brightly, and I felt a glimmer of Christmas spirit. It was coming now!

However, after examining the empty room, the small boy, followed by at least a dozen other near-retarded orphans, changed his tune completely. Instead of initiating the circle of presentless-Christmas-joy, he let out a wail so piercing it’s a miracle the non-stolen glass objects didn’t shatter. One-by-one, the other children followed suit, screaming at the mysterious lack of a Christmas anything. This was wrong! As more children started crying, the other more near-retarded ones who didn’t quite understand the situation started crying because the first kids were crying. The foster mother quickly ran down the stairs and surveyed the room. Surely she would rally them into a hand-holding-Christmas-spirit-material-things-do-not-matter circle. “Wha- those were donated by the church!” was all she managed. This seemed to make the orphans more upset, and the wailing intensified.

What did they think they were doing? They were ruining my Christmas! I immediately jumped out from behind the bathroom door. “No! No! NOOO! You guys don’t get it at all!”I screamed. “Christmas isn’t about the presents! Come on!”

“You’re not Santa!” screamed a child.

“Oh there is no Santa!” I retorted back, clearly winning that argument. Wailing intensified further.

“Ahhh kidnapper!” the foster mother wailed as the children for some reason cried out bloody murder. It was all so blown out of proportion. Either way, I realized I should probably get out of there. I ran for the door, but just then the foster mother sprayed me with what must have been the most powerful mace on the market. My eyes burning and my vision impaired, I just followed my body’s natural reaction and blindly punched the foster mother square in the face. As far as I could hear, she went down pretty quick, and I continued to run, feeling my way to the door. All the chaos from this distracted from the new foster home puppy I had just stepped on and crushed. More wailing. I managed to hide in some bushes down the road by the time the cops arrived.

All in all, I would say that yes, my Christmas spirit was properly restored. Watching those crying orphans complain about their lack of toys, food and ear medicine made me realize that these kids are completely oblivious to the true meaning of Christmas. I was the sole being in that orphanage on Christmas morning fully aware that Christmas isn’t about those material things; it’s about so much more than that. Therefore, I have the children of St. Peter’s Foster Orphanage For the Near-Retarded to thank for my cheer this holiday season after all, if not quite for the reasons I had intended.

Rejected Letterman Joke Of the Day (RLJOD)

As some of you are aware, I contribute zingers to David Letterman's monologue on a daily basis. Naturally, around 99.9999998% of them do not get chosen. Thus, rather than allow these jokes to rot, I've decided to add a new segment to Sunny Side - Rejected Letterman Joke (or Jokes) of the Day.

Why were they rejected? You decide...

Blackouts have been occuring all over the Northeast, but luckily only affected those who can still afford electricity.

George W. Bush paid a surprise visit to troops in Baghdad, pretty much just to sheepishly say "my bad, fellas."

Scientists found a two-thousand year-old brain in Britain, which just makes you wish scientists would stop bugging Larry King on his vacations.

Apple Buys Right to All "i-" Words

If you are a word that starts with a lower case “i”, Apple now owns you. Indeed, Steve Jobs and Co. have let the world know that they mean business when it comes to product naming, buying the rights to use all words in the English language that begin with a lower case “i” for potential future use. “I mean, what if iPod had been a preexisting word? We would have been screwed” states Jobs. “These are chances I am no longer willing to take”. Longtime English-language favorites such as ice cream, idiot, and imagination are, effective next month, closed to the public. While the outcry from these changes is expected to be substantial, Apple remains confident that the blow will be softened by the public’s eagerness for new pint-sized electronic products. “The use of a lower case ‘i’ has been a privilege, not a right” claims English professor Donald Quagley. “We as a people have taken it completely for granted, and Apple is making us feel the burn.”

In taking such a bold marketing move, Apple recognizes that the public’s everyday language use will be thrown a tad asunder. However, they wish to make clear that any “I” word can still be utilized, so long as it is at the beginning of a sentence and/or requires usage of a capitol version of the letter. Thus, sentences such as “Jerome has illegitimate children” are to now be rephrased as “Illegitimate children are what Jerome has.” Additionally, if such a sentence inversion is impossible, the writer must consult a thesaurus, or right click on said word and select the “Synonyms” option. Though these adjustments may be painstaking at first, the public is projected to get the hang of it after a few solid months.

Meanwhile, some “I” words will simply be altered completely. Taking a particular hit are words that mean the opposite of other words, such as “irresponsible” or “insufficient”. However, a plan has already been drawn up that would allow these words to be replaced by the far more grammatically awkward “unresponsible” and “unsuffiecient”. These principles would be applied throughout the English language, and some of the French.

Penalties for unproper lower-case “i” usage consist of fines, potential jail time, and having Justin Long sent to your house to act smugly superior to you in front of your friends.

Is all of this really necessary? “Absolutely”, claims Jobs. “Consumers would see certain English words and get confused. For instance, they’d see ‘igloo’ and think ‘Oh, did Apple release a new, beefed up version of ‘gloo’ with internet access?’ Additionally, we at Apple are no longer limited in our product titling. If we want to make a product called the iGloo, we can now!” When asked what the product would do, Jobs stated the point was Unrelevant.

NYU Admittance a Growing Problem

(Rooters - Wednesday) A growing epidemic among young people has the nation in a tizzy. With each passing September, it appears that an increasing number of teenagers are falling victim to New York University Admittance. The New York City college, which has claimed the lives of millions of young men and what are thought to be, young women, was founded sometime ago by a man who wanted to create a school where “students could think outside the box, embrace their differences from the rest of society, and use it as an excuse to act completely weird and alienating.”

Studies show that even experimentation with one NYU summer class can lead to full time admission, and a subsequent downward spiral. Even more studies show that while these problems are thought to be most rampant with inner city youth, the primary victims have been upper-middle class whites. (Inner city youth could not afford the tuition, nor would be likely to get accepted due to a weak resume).

“Do they really think it’s cool?” asks Cheryl Bloom, a local parent. “I blame the rappers who make it look glamorous! The way they’re allowed to follow their career goals so specifically. It’s sick. You hate to see that happen to a young person.”

A common reason for NYU Admittance (NYUA) seems to be peer pressure, explains Doctor of Psychology Wilfred Alberts. “They see all their favorite celebrities becoming NYU students and they follow suit. These so-called ‘idols’ are supposed to be setting an example [gosh darn it]!”

“Why are these young people applying so willingly? It’s hard to say”, claims another Doctor of Psychology Robert Watkins, “Some may call it a desperate cry for attention. Not me though; I just find it annoying.” Indeed, many students who fall victim to NYUA were outcasts throughout their adolescence, and are now relishing an opportunity to be “different for the sake of being different” (from NYU Mission Statement).

Symptoms of NYU admission include regular donning of flannel, dark rimmed glasses, occasional ironic haircuts, Converse sneakers, and if facially capable, an unnecessary lumberjack beard. Those affected are often seen wearing scarves regardless of the outdoor temperatures. Also, victims are notorious for unusually lousy taste. “Arcade Fire? Garden State? Falafel? These are not the favorites of a clear-thinking human” expresses Professor of Thought, Dr. Steven Barrows.

After some initial experimentation with classes that at first sounded interesting, students soon begin to get completely lost in their specific, predetermined concentration. In many instances, these young people become driven and crippled by their craving for concentrated education beyond the point of recognition. Additionally, with every passing year, more and more NYU Students are lost to graduation, which in turn frees up room for more incoming students. The brutal cycle, seemingly, never ends.

Though times look grim, steps have been taken to spread NYU Admittance Awareness (NYUAA). Efforts are being made to rid high schools of NYU admissions information, though the problem is simply too vast. As recent as last week, Bobby Ryvell and Samuel King, both Juniors at North Brunswick High School, were suspended for reading an NYU information pamphlet together in the boys’ bathroom. Rumors were that the boys had been pushing the pamphlet on younger students, many of whom had a full year to go before thinking about collegiate education. Additionally, more cities are opening up voluntary rehab centers referred to as “The Military”.

The media is also doing its part. Aging rocker Neil Young’s recently released album Goodbye Old Paint is a tribute to a dear friend he lost to NYU in the seventies. “He just got so pretentious and annoying” claims Young, “I just really didn’t want to hang out with him anymore.” Furthermore, recently released motion picture Requiem for an NYU Student is the latest attempt to bring the harsh realities of NYUA to the forefront of society. The film follows the path of four high school graduates who, despite their better judgment, apply, are accepted, and attend NYU. One of the film’s most harrowing scenes in when the female lead is shown listening to a Sufjan Stevens album while studying for her final in Great 19th Century Agrarian Sculptors Who Wore Hats During Dusk Hours 102. It’s currently at 34% on Rotten Tomatoes.

Amidst all the corruption, there is indeed a ray of hope. For instance, certain NYU applicants do not get accepted, and go on to lead mainstream lives. Additionally, some NYU graduates appear to have turned out fine, as English Major Tom Livingston (NYU class of ‘07) claims, “I had a great experience. I’m actually going to grad school at Harvard in the fall to get my masters, so yeah, can’t complain.” However, a close friend of Livingston declares that indeed he had become “kind of a douche”.

What If Jesse Was Right?

The N train has not been running on weekends at all or during the week from midnight to five AM. The reason is track construction. These changes will last well into December, and have forced Astoria residents such as myself to become very acquainted with the dreaded 7 Train, which makes about as many public appearances as a Barack Obama flaw. With that much construction work, the newly refurbished N Train better have audio-animatronics a la Pirates of the Caribbean upon its return. What the hell else could take so long? Nevertheless, I found myself eventually sitting on a packed 7 Train at 12:30 tonight. And so begins our tale…

“God bless you, ladies and gentlemen”. When you hear someone enter a 7 Train and open with that line, you know you’re in for a treat. Indeed, at the Grand Central stop, a suited, bearded (white, you know you were wondering) man named Jesse entered the train and launched into a tirade that would have made Jesus proud, if Jesus liked loud obnoxious guys. Jesse preached the tale to the unsuspecting 7 Train passengers of his rise from the depths of sin. Apparently, he previously was a thief, a liar, and dated multiple married women. The latter part I can only imagine must have taken place when he was handsomer. However, he discovered Jesus and yadda yadda yadda we’ve all heard it. Needless to say, he loves his new life so much now that he screams on 7 Trains at midnight.

During his speech, and in between Bible slaps, Jesse made a point to describe to the rest of us what exactly would happen whence we are facing final judgment by God. Evidently, and I must have missed this chapter of the Bible, God is going to scoff at me because I didn’t heed the word of his messenger Jesse, who apparently he had especially sent. Now, I’ve heard a lot of delightfully nutty religious-types preach their word, but Jesse displayed some huge cajones with that statement. To state that God especially sent you on this run, like an intern going to Starbucks, is a very ballsy move, and one I imagine the big man would not be too fond of if word got around. We all shared a good laugh. Crazy people are funny.

But then I got to thinking…what if Jesse’s claims are accurate? Hell, none of us are any wiser than he is on the subject, when you think about it. For all I know, when I meet my maker and I’m looking at God in whatever form he believes will make me the most comfortable (I’m hoping for Jodie Foster’s father from Contact), I will be so pissed if he’s like “Well Michael, you’ve been pretty alright. You didn’t rob any banks, that’s a plus. Also, you don’t listen to that much rap music. However, that one day on the 7 Train when my right hand Jesse was speaking, you did have your iPod on. You drowned out his good word with ‘Sunken Treasure’ by Wilco – that’s not even that good of a song. Boom – Hell!” And Jesse’ll just be standing there on God’s shoulder, laughing and slapping his Bible in victory.

God, if you’re reading this (and I can only assume you are the “Anonymous” that keeps leaving comments), please don’t continue to use Jesse as your messenger. He’s a tool, and his beard just doesn’t work. Also, he tried to guilt us into taking him seriously, and that’s not representative of the God I thought I knew. Anyway, give it some though and continue leaving those comments.

That being said, I was a bit let down when Jesse departed by telling us all to stop by the Times Square Church so we can all be just like him. Really, Jesse? You were the Naked Cowboy of religion? I cannot help but feel slightly led on but who knows, I may stop by the Times Square Church one of these days to wish Jesse luck with his career as the only white guy who’s ever yelled at a subway car full of people for any reason. Also, I might suggest that next time, he at least be selling Peanut M&M’s to support his rec basketball team.

So yeah, the N Train needs to come back. Now.

First "Realty" Show Set to Premier

A slight typo has led to the linchpin of TBS’s new Monday night programming lineup, Estate of Love. After a poorly written memo demanding a “reality show” was delivered to the head of programming at the network, preparations were underway to give teen starlet Monisha Butterphly (My New Mommy’s Dance Party, OMG Hot Boys!, Schindler’s List 2: Dance Party) a new hit series. Unfortunately, due to the near unintelligible handwriting of the company’s CEO, the program transformed from Butterphly living in a Los Angeles house with nine irritable fashion bloggers to Butterphly working in a real estate office in Jackson, Mississippi.

“While it’s not exactly what I had intended, I remain confident that Estate of Love will be a rousing success” claimed TBS CEO Brad Billington, “though I swear my memo definitely said ‘reality’, not ‘realty’. It was pretty clear. Even if not, I would think the former would have been implied. Whatever, it’s fine.”

Estate of Love, despite its unorthodox origins, has the industry abuzz and online gossip e-zines cooking with rumors of the juicy dramatics that are likely to unfold. The nation cannot wait to see how Butterphly interacts with the remaining staff of Jackson Realty, which opened in 1986. As of the episodes shot so far, Butterphly is currently serving in an entry level administrative position, due to her lack of experience in the field. But there’s no telling how far she’ll climb as the season progresses.

“She probably won’t climb very far, our staff is very small. Anyone in a prominent position has been here for the better part of two decades and are in their late-forties to early-fifties” claims manager of Jackson Realty, Barney Jackson, “She’s only working here because TBS made us fire poor Beatrice Perry, who was set to retire in three weeks and whose cat just passed away.”

Though the program has a fairly bland setting, viewers and fans of Butterphly’s delightful bigotry will not be disappointed by her reported occasional break room antics. And just wait until you see Butterphly adjust to using a fax machine, in a hilarious fish-out-of-water scenario.

“If people watch this, I will be surprised and content”, chimes Billington, “…but will have lost all faith in humanity.”

Estate of Love premiers Monday at 9 on TBS, right after House of Payne and right before House of Payne.

Get Out (Something Other Than) The Vote

Tomorrow, our country will be determining how our next four (or eight [or twelve, if our government listens to my strongly worded letter]) years will be handled. John McCain or Barack Obama will be crowned king of democracy in mere hours, and the everyone of us is encouraged to get out there and vote. However, I will not be voting, and I encourage you to do the same. Ladies and gentlemen, over the past few years, I have learned first hand that your vote simply does not matter. Any suggestion of America getting to "choose" who wins any sort of election is merely fodder to make us feel important and sell Pepsi Cola products. I for one am putting my foot down.

What possible experience could have put me off from having my voice heard, you ask? A look at my voting track record of the past few years should clear up any confusion.

2005 (first year I was allowed to text)-

My vote: Bo Bice
The Winner: Karrie Underwood

2006-

My vote: Katharine McPhee
The Winner: Taylor Hicks

2007-

My vote: Blake Lewis
The Winner: Jordan Sparks

2008-

My vote: David Archeluta
The winner: David Cook

So excuse me if I'm a little discouraged. I encourage each and every one of you to follow my lead. There's no point to voting, so why kid yourself? Regardless of what Seacrest tells you, the only thing America's choosing is how to get punked. Because no matter how badly you want Clay to win, Rubin will always pull it out in the end.