By Jeff Guy
(Singing) “I’m dreaming of a blight Christmas.”
Dear ___________,
Hey all you pretty things, let’s all laugh and sing even if we gotta do it remotely. Ho! Ho! Ho! Let’s kiss under the mistletoe as soon as consent between two adults has been established. Dr. Fauci has assured the children of the world that he has given Santa has been given the new COVID vaccine so it’s safe for Mr. Claus and KAKE-Man and eight tiny reindeer to go zooming around the big wide world and into your homes. Kiddos, be sure to leave Santa Claus some weed and cookies -- I mean milk and cookies -- get the old shut eye. Then you can have sweet dreams of toy soldiers, candy canes, marshmallow worlds and sugar plum faries who came and hit the street. Looking for soul food and a place to eat.
Now there you go. Doesn’t that opening paragraph give you a jolt of Christmas spirit? The horror-like 1951 version of “A Christmas Carol” starring Alastair Sim as Ebenezer Scrooge. Nat King Cole’s ‘60s era Christmas album spinning on some Madmen-Hugh Hefner-like hi-fi while you sip a Christmas cocktail and your chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
Yeah, yeah, I know Christmas this year might seem about as bland as a karaoke version of “All I Want for Christmas is You,” but aside from a pandemic, a World War 2-like number of American deaths, a wrecked economy and the orange walrus in the White House, 2020 hasn’t been such a bad year.
My son, Sam, graduated from high school this year, but, unfortunately, didn’t get a graduation. He’s taking life as it comes though. He is attending Grossmont Community College in Beulah, Kan. and after obtaining his associate’s degree, he plans to transfer to Wichita State University. Both schools are my alma maters. Young Samuel plans to go further than I did, however, as he’s going for the academic creme de la creme. Says he wants to get a P.h.D. in history and become a college professor. Also, he texted me the other day and asked if I know a guy named “Hugh Janus.”
Sam is currently living with his girlfriend’s family in Derby, much like the 20something Paul McCartney lived with his lover, Jane Asher’s family at the height of Beatlemania. Actually, after years of buzz cuts administered by his mother, Sam has recently grown his hair out to a Beatle-esque style.
My daughter, Kenzie, is still wearing her hair green, albeit long now and no longer pixie-ish, and what little makeup she wears is goth. She is representing her high school as a member of Color Guard, waving and twirling a big flag to various routines during halftime of her school’s basketball games. The gym is only allowed to seat 25 percent capacity and we all wear masks. She’s educated me about K-pop.
Both my kids love their old dad dearly as one can see by the endearing messages they leave for me on the message board affixed to the refrigerator.
As for me, folks here in Worthington, Kan. know I have left my old job with The Worthington News. It’s been a month. I am now a Social Service Specialist with Senior Services of Wichita, working in their Meals on Wheels program. Commuting to Wichita during the week and still living the small town life in the evenings. I should say I left the newspaper office as I found it.
Then there was my dating life, which I actually got to live out a little when that bastard COVID wasn’t surging. There’s nothing like a romantic night out with a special someone that ends with such beautiful farewells as, “Dammit, I think my bra is under the seat” and “Throw your condoms away. My kids ride in this car.”
On a more respectable outing, I met a woman named Amber for coffee at Steamin’ Joe’s. Amber works at the local bookstore, Sunshine Bookshop. We chatted about Shakespeare, Melville, Hawthorne and how I’d been watching literature classes from Yale University on YouTube. Also, she told me about her brother, Hardy, who had inflammation of the testicles.
Hardy was sitting on the toilet in the morning, as one does, and as he dropped his cigarette into the bowl, nearly burning his penis, he noticed that his scrotal sack was ballooning and resembling more and more, a bag of russet potatoes. He noticed a further bulging and redness to his testicles in the shower as they came to look and feel like the big bags with the handles we used to bounce on in the gymnasium of Robinson Elementary. One could say Hardy’s penis was the handle. Fortunately, Hardy’s physician, Dr. McCue referred him to a respectable urologist and I’m happy to report that Hardy’s testicles are now normal and at a size commensurate with his penis.
Well, that’s all my crap for another year. I just want to say that as I write this, several friends of mine are battling difficulties in life. You may not know them, but if you’re a praying person, I sure would appreciate it if you would say a prayer for all the people struggling out there. Everyone’s battling something. It seems everyone I went to school with has lost, or is losing a parent. We’ve come to that place in life. I lost my mother last year and let me tell you, this world will never be the same for me without having Vickie Guy around. That’s why we need to learn how to love and forget how to hate.
Love, yes. I remember the time - I was in high school - my mom said she’d make brownies and my friend, Hyde, who wore rose colored glasses, suddenly got excited and said he had a good recipe for brownies. Later, Mom told Hyde she knew his secret recipe was love. “Oh, there’s a big bagful of love here,” he said. My friends, Hyde, Donna, Kelso and I sat in a circle in the basement, devouring the rich heights of love-filled brownies.
Here's to a rocking 2021. Now spay and neuter your pets, don’t drive impaired and don’t be a stupidhead. Wear the damn mask. Get the vaccine when the time comes. It’s not a mind control shot produced under some evil government conspiracy. It’s made by the Pfizer company. Men trust Pfizer with their penises. Just ask Hardy. You can trust them with a vaccine. May you have some ever lovin’ brownies in the new year.
Cheers,
Jeff
P.S. One of the first casualties of the year to COVID was the great singer/songwriter John Prine. Rolling Stone called him the "Mark Twain of American songwriting." Let's just end it with one of his songs. This one, in my opinion, counts as a Christmas song.
Jesus, the Missing Years" -- John Prine
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