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T. Michael Barclay's "Asylum Earth" takes a slightly different look at people, places and events that shape the planet we are confined to. It's overwhelming evidence that the patients are indeed running the asylum.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
THE HACKER THAT STOLE THE HOLIDAYS –
Making The ‘Grinch’ Look Like A Saint . . .
December the 31st, 1999 was one of the worst days of my life. I had lived through Jimmy Carter as President, the TV series ‘F Troop’ being canceled, listening to ‘American Pie’ in every club in 90 countries, the death of several beloved pets, and alas, the end of the ‘Peanuts’ comic strip . . . But all of this pales in comparison to the loss I suffered, at my own hands no less, on that faithful evening.
I was living and working in Bangkok, Thailand at the time and had prepared myself for any possible Y2K threat. However, on this day I received several e-mail messages and a warning from the State Department concerning a completely different kind of threat, one they were sure was going to infect my hard drive and cause ten times the damage that the Y2K bug had ever dreamed of. I sat there late that night just staring at my monitor and at 11:59p I finally watched my most beloved program gasp its last breath as I . . . deleted ‘Elf Bowling’ from my computer.
I have never felt so betrayed in my life . . . Why me? Why Elf Bowling? What have we come to? What sick mind would hide a virus in Elf Bowling? How I loved the hours spent playing Santa, as I bowled those little elf bastards into oblivion. How I cherished hitting the tinny tots right smack in the crack when they mooned me. I even had the ultimate weapon when one of the midget maggots cried, "Gutter Ball"! I would simply hit ‘Exit’ and start the damn game over.
“Ha, ha, ha!” I would exalt, “moon that, little man”!
There is a bunch of real sick people out there who don’t have the guts to blow up a building or flood a tunnel or even put a bomb in a church. These cowards hide behind thick glasses in dark corners and think up crap to blow away every piece of data known to mankind . . . And just for fun! Christ, at least terrorists have motivation.
I do not think the Ayatollah really wants my word documents scrambled like eggs. What real good could possibly come out of having my data base of beer wholesalers disappear? Their all in the phone book! You want to take care of that little job, I’ll give you the address of the directory folks . . . Blow them up! Now, while there may be some value in destroying my e-mail, I don’t think a worldwide virus, hidden in the butts of little Santa sniffers, is required. That’s why God (or was it Bill Gates, I get them mixed up) invented the delete key . . .
It’s obvious that those bleeding heart liberals that want to end capital punishment have never lost a dear friend via ‘uninstall’. The inhumanity of their acts most certainly qualifies them for a retroactive abortion in my book.
Well, before I get emotional, I just want everyone to know that until every hacker worldwide is hunted down like the pond scum they are, I trust no one. I suggest you join me in my mistrust. I will not open any e-mail from anyone I do not know personally and will not open ‘Attachments’ from them. If it’s that important, put a stamp on it and take it to the Post Office, I can wait.
Happy the hell Holidays . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Making The ‘Grinch’ Look Like A Saint . . .
December the 31st, 1999 was one of the worst days of my life. I had lived through Jimmy Carter as President, the TV series ‘F Troop’ being canceled, listening to ‘American Pie’ in every club in 90 countries, the death of several beloved pets, and alas, the end of the ‘Peanuts’ comic strip . . . But all of this pales in comparison to the loss I suffered, at my own hands no less, on that faithful evening.
I was living and working in Bangkok, Thailand at the time and had prepared myself for any possible Y2K threat. However, on this day I received several e-mail messages and a warning from the State Department concerning a completely different kind of threat, one they were sure was going to infect my hard drive and cause ten times the damage that the Y2K bug had ever dreamed of. I sat there late that night just staring at my monitor and at 11:59p I finally watched my most beloved program gasp its last breath as I . . . deleted ‘Elf Bowling’ from my computer.
I have never felt so betrayed in my life . . . Why me? Why Elf Bowling? What have we come to? What sick mind would hide a virus in Elf Bowling? How I loved the hours spent playing Santa, as I bowled those little elf bastards into oblivion. How I cherished hitting the tinny tots right smack in the crack when they mooned me. I even had the ultimate weapon when one of the midget maggots cried, "Gutter Ball"! I would simply hit ‘Exit’ and start the damn game over.
“Ha, ha, ha!” I would exalt, “moon that, little man”!
There is a bunch of real sick people out there who don’t have the guts to blow up a building or flood a tunnel or even put a bomb in a church. These cowards hide behind thick glasses in dark corners and think up crap to blow away every piece of data known to mankind . . . And just for fun! Christ, at least terrorists have motivation.
I do not think the Ayatollah really wants my word documents scrambled like eggs. What real good could possibly come out of having my data base of beer wholesalers disappear? Their all in the phone book! You want to take care of that little job, I’ll give you the address of the directory folks . . . Blow them up! Now, while there may be some value in destroying my e-mail, I don’t think a worldwide virus, hidden in the butts of little Santa sniffers, is required. That’s why God (or was it Bill Gates, I get them mixed up) invented the delete key . . .
It’s obvious that those bleeding heart liberals that want to end capital punishment have never lost a dear friend via ‘uninstall’. The inhumanity of their acts most certainly qualifies them for a retroactive abortion in my book.
Well, before I get emotional, I just want everyone to know that until every hacker worldwide is hunted down like the pond scum they are, I trust no one. I suggest you join me in my mistrust. I will not open any e-mail from anyone I do not know personally and will not open ‘Attachments’ from them. If it’s that important, put a stamp on it and take it to the Post Office, I can wait.
Happy the hell Holidays . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Sunday, December 28, 2003
RESOLUTION SOLUTON –
Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire . . .
What are your New Years resolutions?
Give it a rest - that was a rhetorical question. Your wife/husband, life-partner, friends, family and/or pets really don’t care. They’ve heard it before and have seen the results. (Or, lack thereof) Making New Years resolutions is akin to mashing the brakes on a bridge during an ‘ice storm’. Not only don’t you get the desired results, the ensuing disaster has a good chance of ending up being used as film fare for a ‘DUI’ safe driving course.
Face it; you couldn’t manage to keep the resolve not to hurt yourself at Thanksgiving. You then followed that by the obligatory, “Oh, what the hell” justification that you might as well ‘enjoy the holiday’s’ since you already broke the waistline point of no return.
Now I know that losing weight is not the hardest thing you will ever do. It’s not like stopping smoking cold turkey or giving up that demon rum. Four years ago I myself managed to shed over 100 pounds. It wasn’t cheap, divorce never is! (Insert cheap laugh here . . .)
Saying that your New Years resolution is to lose ten pounds is always followed by an April resolution to gain fifteen pounds. So, can the rhetoric and resolve this . . . Don’t make stupid declarations that you have absolutely no intention of actually keeping!
Besides, where exactly is the logic in resolving to lose weight right after you went through a period of time (approximating the Thanksgiving to New Years time frame) of stuffing yourself like a ‘piñata’ with large quantities of sugar and flour. This, of course, was justified by indulging yourself in the consumption of massive amounts of diet ‘egg nog’.
Thus begins the macabre cycle of gaining and losing, gaining and losing. You put on weight over the holidays, starve it off for about ninety days, gain it back in about two weeks and then enter the dreaded pre-swimsuit panic period. You then eat celery and stop exhaling for another ninety days and lo and behold; it’s the holidays again! Sound familiar?
Well, I’ve got a new plan. Wouldn’t it make a ton more sense to resolve to lose weight during the holiday period? That way you come out of the season of excess having not only lost ten pounds, you will not have gained the annual ten and thereby achieve a net twenty pound positive position. Now . . . when April comes around, you can enjoy the annual ‘gut gorge’ and still begin the ‘pre-swimsuit’ battle of the bulge five pounds on the plus side of the lipo-success chart.
The best part of this plan is that you don’t have to start it until next November, so, what the hell, pass the cream cheese. My New Years resolution is to just move the whole damn process and thereby putting failure off for a good ten months. Finally a resolution I can live with . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire . . .
What are your New Years resolutions?
Give it a rest - that was a rhetorical question. Your wife/husband, life-partner, friends, family and/or pets really don’t care. They’ve heard it before and have seen the results. (Or, lack thereof) Making New Years resolutions is akin to mashing the brakes on a bridge during an ‘ice storm’. Not only don’t you get the desired results, the ensuing disaster has a good chance of ending up being used as film fare for a ‘DUI’ safe driving course.
Face it; you couldn’t manage to keep the resolve not to hurt yourself at Thanksgiving. You then followed that by the obligatory, “Oh, what the hell” justification that you might as well ‘enjoy the holiday’s’ since you already broke the waistline point of no return.
Now I know that losing weight is not the hardest thing you will ever do. It’s not like stopping smoking cold turkey or giving up that demon rum. Four years ago I myself managed to shed over 100 pounds. It wasn’t cheap, divorce never is! (Insert cheap laugh here . . .)
Saying that your New Years resolution is to lose ten pounds is always followed by an April resolution to gain fifteen pounds. So, can the rhetoric and resolve this . . . Don’t make stupid declarations that you have absolutely no intention of actually keeping!
Besides, where exactly is the logic in resolving to lose weight right after you went through a period of time (approximating the Thanksgiving to New Years time frame) of stuffing yourself like a ‘piñata’ with large quantities of sugar and flour. This, of course, was justified by indulging yourself in the consumption of massive amounts of diet ‘egg nog’.
Thus begins the macabre cycle of gaining and losing, gaining and losing. You put on weight over the holidays, starve it off for about ninety days, gain it back in about two weeks and then enter the dreaded pre-swimsuit panic period. You then eat celery and stop exhaling for another ninety days and lo and behold; it’s the holidays again! Sound familiar?
Well, I’ve got a new plan. Wouldn’t it make a ton more sense to resolve to lose weight during the holiday period? That way you come out of the season of excess having not only lost ten pounds, you will not have gained the annual ten and thereby achieve a net twenty pound positive position. Now . . . when April comes around, you can enjoy the annual ‘gut gorge’ and still begin the ‘pre-swimsuit’ battle of the bulge five pounds on the plus side of the lipo-success chart.
The best part of this plan is that you don’t have to start it until next November, so, what the hell, pass the cream cheese. My New Years resolution is to just move the whole damn process and thereby putting failure off for a good ten months. Finally a resolution I can live with . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Thursday, December 18, 2003
FATHER CHRISTMAS -
Putting The Cheap In Cheapskate . . .
When I was a young boy, my Father, in an effort to keep us from getting too greedy, would go out in the back yard, fire a shotgun in the air and come back in and tell us that Santa Claus had committed suicide. Our Mother did not think this was very funny.
As I look back, being the rocket scientists’ we were, my brothers and I bought the fact that Santa had killed himself on no less than nine occasions. It did, however, have the intended result as we were much more appreciative of the twenty-pack underwear, bulk socks and t-shirts that were under the tree on Christmas morning. On the odd year that Santa seemed to resolve his issues, I would get a JC Penny’s iridescent green reversible suit with two vests. Those were very, very good years.
Given his propensity for spending the big bucks on gifts, our annual Christmas tree ritual should have come as no surprise. He held the firm belief that you had to have a ‘real’ living tree and would bundle up the whole family to make the annual trek out into the woods. The fact that we were making this journey in the dark of night never really dawned on us until years later. We were, as it turns out, actually poaching a Christmas tree off some unsuspecting farmer.
We thought it was great family fun to string popcorn for the trees decorations only to realize that this also served as the snack for the holiday football bowl games. Other holiday snacks which came as less and less of a surprise were chocolates that gave us an unusual desire to visit the porcelain facilities, bowls of snacks that were either Kibbles or Bits, we were never sure which, and fudge that tasted like hay, but made us mellow as hell.
As all families, we had the usual big holiday meal. My Father would burst in with a big smile on his face and announce what this years ‘road kill’ was. We all just giggled in the knowledge that our Father was a gourmet cook and could make anything taste like prime rib. It never dawned on us that our Father was a traveling salesman and a quick check of the grill of his Oldsmobile would have verified his claim, yum, yum.
Even when our Father had a good year financially, he was the ultimate Christmas gift pragmatic. He saw no reason for stuffed animals. If you wanted a bear, he would bring one home, figuring that you would not only have more fun, but that you would spend more time outside. He had a point as we chased ‘Pooh’ about twelve miles the first night.
I can remember the time I wrote a letter to Santa and asked for my first ‘Erector’ set. Christmas morning I was blindfolded and taken outside. You can imagine the thrill when they took off the blindfold and I saw the Home Builders truck unloading the last of the lumber and siding. I spent the better part of January building a bedroom addition onto our house. One of my brothers had asked for a home putting green and was busy putting in the carpet. Another one asked for a ‘Slip-n-Slide’ and finished the bathroom tile about the same time I had the windows in.
It is this time of year that you think about family, some more than others. I am always unsure if I miss my Father or wish I had a bigger family so I could wreck havoc on their psyche. Fortunately for this generation, we have a fake tree, snacks wrapped in shrink wrap, presents straight from the Internet and dinner from the freezer . . . You know, maybe Dad had it right . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Putting The Cheap In Cheapskate . . .
When I was a young boy, my Father, in an effort to keep us from getting too greedy, would go out in the back yard, fire a shotgun in the air and come back in and tell us that Santa Claus had committed suicide. Our Mother did not think this was very funny.
As I look back, being the rocket scientists’ we were, my brothers and I bought the fact that Santa had killed himself on no less than nine occasions. It did, however, have the intended result as we were much more appreciative of the twenty-pack underwear, bulk socks and t-shirts that were under the tree on Christmas morning. On the odd year that Santa seemed to resolve his issues, I would get a JC Penny’s iridescent green reversible suit with two vests. Those were very, very good years.
Given his propensity for spending the big bucks on gifts, our annual Christmas tree ritual should have come as no surprise. He held the firm belief that you had to have a ‘real’ living tree and would bundle up the whole family to make the annual trek out into the woods. The fact that we were making this journey in the dark of night never really dawned on us until years later. We were, as it turns out, actually poaching a Christmas tree off some unsuspecting farmer.
We thought it was great family fun to string popcorn for the trees decorations only to realize that this also served as the snack for the holiday football bowl games. Other holiday snacks which came as less and less of a surprise were chocolates that gave us an unusual desire to visit the porcelain facilities, bowls of snacks that were either Kibbles or Bits, we were never sure which, and fudge that tasted like hay, but made us mellow as hell.
As all families, we had the usual big holiday meal. My Father would burst in with a big smile on his face and announce what this years ‘road kill’ was. We all just giggled in the knowledge that our Father was a gourmet cook and could make anything taste like prime rib. It never dawned on us that our Father was a traveling salesman and a quick check of the grill of his Oldsmobile would have verified his claim, yum, yum.
Even when our Father had a good year financially, he was the ultimate Christmas gift pragmatic. He saw no reason for stuffed animals. If you wanted a bear, he would bring one home, figuring that you would not only have more fun, but that you would spend more time outside. He had a point as we chased ‘Pooh’ about twelve miles the first night.
I can remember the time I wrote a letter to Santa and asked for my first ‘Erector’ set. Christmas morning I was blindfolded and taken outside. You can imagine the thrill when they took off the blindfold and I saw the Home Builders truck unloading the last of the lumber and siding. I spent the better part of January building a bedroom addition onto our house. One of my brothers had asked for a home putting green and was busy putting in the carpet. Another one asked for a ‘Slip-n-Slide’ and finished the bathroom tile about the same time I had the windows in.
It is this time of year that you think about family, some more than others. I am always unsure if I miss my Father or wish I had a bigger family so I could wreck havoc on their psyche. Fortunately for this generation, we have a fake tree, snacks wrapped in shrink wrap, presents straight from the Internet and dinner from the freezer . . . You know, maybe Dad had it right . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Sunday, December 14, 2003
DID YOU HEAR RUDOLPH? –
What Exactly Are We Teaching Our Children? . . .
I hate the ‘F’ word and go way out of my way not to say it or use it when I write. However, there comes a time in everyone’s life when it just cannot be avoided and this is such a time. I am out buying Christmas presents for my eighteen month old Son and I began to notice that a lot of children’s toys have one thing in common . . . they, well, they . . . errr, well they fart, there, I said it.
Pull a tail, lift an arm, or squeeze an ear, the toilet tuba at its best. Did I fall asleep under a big tree and miss something? When did the sound of too much summer sausage become the latest looney tune of choice for children’s toys? Why do I believe that my Son’s first sentence is going to be, “Hey, Light a match!”
Is this prevalent among the toy world? When you pull the string on G.I. Joe, does he blow butt bugle and then say, “Sergeant Who”? Is the latest cowboy action toy going to belt out a bean ballad and trot off only to be outdone by his trusted horse?
And Cabbage Patch Kids . . . forget about it!
It is entirely possible that they’ve finally put a little more action in the action figures than we wanted. You can just see an entire room empty when little Jane runs up to her Grandparents and announces, “Grandma, pull Hulks finger!”
How about the Santa dolls, they come in life size. Are they going to add a little methane merriment to his Ho, Ho, Ho? Who would have thought that a statement like; “Did you hear a buck snort?” wouldn’t be one hunter talking to another hunter, but be aimed at a toy box.
Next up, ‘Blazing Saddles’ campfire buddies, collect them all and amuse your family and friends. Just tap their hats and hear the sounds of the West. Find out the real reason the girls wouldn’t go along on a bet.
How do you suppose this came up in the marketing meeting at Mattel? “Well, pardon you, but that sounds like a good idea! Anyone else have any input? Good, because that’s a meeting ender if I ever heard one. Now Gorden, I want you to get your butt right on this before competition gets wind of the idea.”
This brings about a whole new opportunity for the ‘scratch and sniff’ folks. Finally give Ken a little personality. That would straighten out Barbie’s curl. You could even add; “Did something crawl up in you and die” to her repartee, what fun.
And another little side benefit . . . Now, Dad can point at the pet and the pet can point at Barney, everybody hates him anyway!
Now that I think about it, maybe I jumped to judgment a little fast on this one . . .
T. Michael Barclay
What Exactly Are We Teaching Our Children? . . .
I hate the ‘F’ word and go way out of my way not to say it or use it when I write. However, there comes a time in everyone’s life when it just cannot be avoided and this is such a time. I am out buying Christmas presents for my eighteen month old Son and I began to notice that a lot of children’s toys have one thing in common . . . they, well, they . . . errr, well they fart, there, I said it.
Pull a tail, lift an arm, or squeeze an ear, the toilet tuba at its best. Did I fall asleep under a big tree and miss something? When did the sound of too much summer sausage become the latest looney tune of choice for children’s toys? Why do I believe that my Son’s first sentence is going to be, “Hey, Light a match!”
Is this prevalent among the toy world? When you pull the string on G.I. Joe, does he blow butt bugle and then say, “Sergeant Who”? Is the latest cowboy action toy going to belt out a bean ballad and trot off only to be outdone by his trusted horse?
And Cabbage Patch Kids . . . forget about it!
It is entirely possible that they’ve finally put a little more action in the action figures than we wanted. You can just see an entire room empty when little Jane runs up to her Grandparents and announces, “Grandma, pull Hulks finger!”
How about the Santa dolls, they come in life size. Are they going to add a little methane merriment to his Ho, Ho, Ho? Who would have thought that a statement like; “Did you hear a buck snort?” wouldn’t be one hunter talking to another hunter, but be aimed at a toy box.
Next up, ‘Blazing Saddles’ campfire buddies, collect them all and amuse your family and friends. Just tap their hats and hear the sounds of the West. Find out the real reason the girls wouldn’t go along on a bet.
How do you suppose this came up in the marketing meeting at Mattel? “Well, pardon you, but that sounds like a good idea! Anyone else have any input? Good, because that’s a meeting ender if I ever heard one. Now Gorden, I want you to get your butt right on this before competition gets wind of the idea.”
This brings about a whole new opportunity for the ‘scratch and sniff’ folks. Finally give Ken a little personality. That would straighten out Barbie’s curl. You could even add; “Did something crawl up in you and die” to her repartee, what fun.
And another little side benefit . . . Now, Dad can point at the pet and the pet can point at Barney, everybody hates him anyway!
Now that I think about it, maybe I jumped to judgment a little fast on this one . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Monday, December 08, 2003
A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE -
Turn Out The Lights, The Party’s Over . . .
Today I sent my wife across the street to deliver a message to my neighbor (we are not speaking, you see). It was simple; “If you put one more Christmas light on your house, I am going to put a live Nativity scene in my front yard . . . camel included!”
Five years doesn’t seem like such a long time, but it has only been that long since Mr. GE moved in across the street and the Christmas holiday season has never been the same. You see, my house was always ‘the house’ to see at Christmas. I had some twinkling lights in my bushes and the ‘outline’ of my house in red lights. I put a couple of cute lighted deer in the front yard and had a Santa Claus cut-out approaching my chimney. Cars would slow down as they passed my house.
Then, five years ago, Mr. lights-a-lot moved in and started making trouble right away. He put lights in the bushes, a couple of deer and a snowman in the yard, outlined his house (windows included) and put a ‘blow up’ Santa on his roof with one foot in his chimney. Cars still slowed down when they passed my house, although they seemed to be looking in a different direction.
That did it . . . I was off to Wal-Mart.
With another couple of thousand lights or so, I wrapped my tree trunks up as high as my new eighteen foot ladder would allow me to. I then affixed a giant star on the peak of my roof and set off the ‘chasing’ lights with ‘jingle bells’ accompanying the movement. Take that you holiday hoodlum!
With everyone back looking in the correct direction, I relaxed in the comfort that I again had set the standard for holiday decorations and would for evermore enjoy my place as the house to see in the local area.
Year two only seemed to make the man delusional . . . lighted ‘icicles’ appeared on the roof line of his house as well as a blinking ‘Happy Yuletide’ sign on the roof with the glaring sounds of “Have a Merry Little Christmas” coming from his new outside stereo speakers. This was war . . .
With smoke coming off my Wal-Mart card, I managed to outline my entire yard with ‘rope’ lights and affix tiny lighted reindeer to a sleigh on my roof. I then proceeded to spray faux snow on my windows and paint ‘Happy Chanukah” on my fence in iridescent green. No, I’m not Jewish, but the point had to be made. People were beginning to stop and gawk.
I figured by year three, Mr. stubborn-as-a-Yule-mule would just concede that he was outmatched and the balance of holiday electrical power would remain in its rightful place. Wrong, tinsel breath . . . seems our boy had watched one too may ‘Christmas Vacation’ movies. I could hear his electric meter! Lights in the trees, lights on the mail box, lights on, yes . . . that’s his dog running across the yard with a lighted message saying something about, “I’ve got your Christmas right here!”
I called Sears and had my credit line extended . . .
I had to remove one of my trees in my front yard to get the twelve eight foot tall holiday figures in place, but being the only house in town with a lighted “Scrooge” action character was worth it. Boarding up the family room windows was also an easy decision as this was the only place I could project the color, ‘surround sound’ enhanced, full length version of “It’s A Wonder Life” for all passing motorists to see. Is that his dog I see hiding behind the mulberry bush . . . too bad.
As I crossed the street to call for a truce at the beginning of year fours holiday season, I noticed the Mormon Tabernacle Choir bus in his driveway. "Sweetheart, call the Ready Ice Company, we’re skiing in the front yard this year!"
The two and a half tons of shaved ice wasn’t going to last very long in the Texas heat, but then the three major TV news crews weren’t going to be here long either. Top that snow brain . . .
Well, it’s year five and I believe Mr. one-upsmanship has had enough. This year’s warning should ring loud and true. However, my wife has been over there for a long time, hummm. Oh, geeez, is that her in the back of that jet sleigh? I can see a second mortgage coming on . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Turn Out The Lights, The Party’s Over . . .
Today I sent my wife across the street to deliver a message to my neighbor (we are not speaking, you see). It was simple; “If you put one more Christmas light on your house, I am going to put a live Nativity scene in my front yard . . . camel included!”
Five years doesn’t seem like such a long time, but it has only been that long since Mr. GE moved in across the street and the Christmas holiday season has never been the same. You see, my house was always ‘the house’ to see at Christmas. I had some twinkling lights in my bushes and the ‘outline’ of my house in red lights. I put a couple of cute lighted deer in the front yard and had a Santa Claus cut-out approaching my chimney. Cars would slow down as they passed my house.
Then, five years ago, Mr. lights-a-lot moved in and started making trouble right away. He put lights in the bushes, a couple of deer and a snowman in the yard, outlined his house (windows included) and put a ‘blow up’ Santa on his roof with one foot in his chimney. Cars still slowed down when they passed my house, although they seemed to be looking in a different direction.
That did it . . . I was off to Wal-Mart.
With another couple of thousand lights or so, I wrapped my tree trunks up as high as my new eighteen foot ladder would allow me to. I then affixed a giant star on the peak of my roof and set off the ‘chasing’ lights with ‘jingle bells’ accompanying the movement. Take that you holiday hoodlum!
With everyone back looking in the correct direction, I relaxed in the comfort that I again had set the standard for holiday decorations and would for evermore enjoy my place as the house to see in the local area.
Year two only seemed to make the man delusional . . . lighted ‘icicles’ appeared on the roof line of his house as well as a blinking ‘Happy Yuletide’ sign on the roof with the glaring sounds of “Have a Merry Little Christmas” coming from his new outside stereo speakers. This was war . . .
With smoke coming off my Wal-Mart card, I managed to outline my entire yard with ‘rope’ lights and affix tiny lighted reindeer to a sleigh on my roof. I then proceeded to spray faux snow on my windows and paint ‘Happy Chanukah” on my fence in iridescent green. No, I’m not Jewish, but the point had to be made. People were beginning to stop and gawk.
I figured by year three, Mr. stubborn-as-a-Yule-mule would just concede that he was outmatched and the balance of holiday electrical power would remain in its rightful place. Wrong, tinsel breath . . . seems our boy had watched one too may ‘Christmas Vacation’ movies. I could hear his electric meter! Lights in the trees, lights on the mail box, lights on, yes . . . that’s his dog running across the yard with a lighted message saying something about, “I’ve got your Christmas right here!”
I called Sears and had my credit line extended . . .
I had to remove one of my trees in my front yard to get the twelve eight foot tall holiday figures in place, but being the only house in town with a lighted “Scrooge” action character was worth it. Boarding up the family room windows was also an easy decision as this was the only place I could project the color, ‘surround sound’ enhanced, full length version of “It’s A Wonder Life” for all passing motorists to see. Is that his dog I see hiding behind the mulberry bush . . . too bad.
As I crossed the street to call for a truce at the beginning of year fours holiday season, I noticed the Mormon Tabernacle Choir bus in his driveway. "Sweetheart, call the Ready Ice Company, we’re skiing in the front yard this year!"
The two and a half tons of shaved ice wasn’t going to last very long in the Texas heat, but then the three major TV news crews weren’t going to be here long either. Top that snow brain . . .
Well, it’s year five and I believe Mr. one-upsmanship has had enough. This year’s warning should ring loud and true. However, my wife has been over there for a long time, hummm. Oh, geeez, is that her in the back of that jet sleigh? I can see a second mortgage coming on . . .
T. Michael Barclay
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
SANTA INSANITY –
Flying Reindeer Are More Normal Than You Think . . .
Do the Christmas holidays make us do strange things? What other time of the year do you find yourself on the roof of your house? There I was, sweats and sneakers, trying to figure out just how close I could get to the edge while holding a string of lights and an electric stapler. And, the weird part was all I could think about was that the directions on the box of lights stated that I was not supposed to connect more than sixty lights together . . . they came boxed twenty-five to a set!
Watching my wife stand on the ground just looking up and shaking her head, I was taken back to a time when taking a tumble off the roof might not have seemed like the oddest part of the holiday.
Having been elected that year to be the ‘office’ Santa Clause, I donned the customary costume and handed out favors around the company’s facilities during the afternoon. Thinking it a brilliant idea, I called my wife and told her that I would come home, still dressed as Santa, and surprise our three year old daughter. Wanting to be as ‘real’ as possible, I even filled my Santa sack with some of the empty wrapped boxes from under the company Christmas tree.
My wife agreed to open the drapes covering the patio door as I suggested that I come in through a gate at the rear of our property to give our daughter a good long look at Santa coming to her house. The drive home, aside from a few odd looks, was for the most part uneventful as I parked on the street and made my way around to the back of our lot.
It was at this point that I remembered that the gates to our fenced in yard were padlocked from the inside. Not wanting to spoil the moment, I decided to just climb the gate, Santa sack and all, and jump over into our yard with a loud HO, HO, HO!
It was at this exact moment that I also remembered why our gates were padlocked in the first place. We owned a Doberman Pinscher . . . Her name was Gretchen and under normal circumstances Gretchen was a kind and loveable dog. Seeing a big fat man in a red suit jump over the fence with a sack full of boxes apparently didn’t seem normal to Gretchen.
As Gretchen launched herself across our backyard, I tried pulling down the beard and calling her name. Might have worked on any other day, but the snarling and saliva told me I needed to be well into a plan ‘B’ I hadn’t thought of yet. Giving up the sack of faux gifts seemed like a no-brainer, but did little to distract the charging hound that was intent on getting a piece of the only thing moving. I was also struck by the fact that the inside of our fence didn’t have the same braces that made climbing over the back side so easy.
I hit the fence scratching and clawing like I had just woken up in a closed coffin and managed to make it over with everything except a few strands of white beard, a little red cloth and one black boot. I would have some explaining to do at the ‘ole party store about that boot. It wasn’t flesh, but Gretchen seemed quite satisfied with her prize.
Figuring that I had solved my biggest problem by getting out of there alive, I had another think coming. My three year old daughter, having been set up by her Mother and me, had witnessed the entire spectacle of our dog attacking Santa Clause and was now watching our pet rip her perceived presents to shreds in dog delirium. It seems that this is a bit much for a three year old to handle.
Thinking that I could just enter through the front of the house and calm her little fears proved to only exasperate her trauma as I had no real visual of just how disheveled I looked. A gasp from her Mother gave me some idea. This led us to the only other option; show her that Santa was really Daddy. She was going to need therapy, years and years of therapy.
Coming back to the present, as only a staple in your pinkie will do, I decide to just use the gutter clips for the rest of the lights and not involve EMS in this years festivities. The less memorable the holiday, the better it is around our house.
T. Michael Barclay
Flying Reindeer Are More Normal Than You Think . . .
Do the Christmas holidays make us do strange things? What other time of the year do you find yourself on the roof of your house? There I was, sweats and sneakers, trying to figure out just how close I could get to the edge while holding a string of lights and an electric stapler. And, the weird part was all I could think about was that the directions on the box of lights stated that I was not supposed to connect more than sixty lights together . . . they came boxed twenty-five to a set!
Watching my wife stand on the ground just looking up and shaking her head, I was taken back to a time when taking a tumble off the roof might not have seemed like the oddest part of the holiday.
Having been elected that year to be the ‘office’ Santa Clause, I donned the customary costume and handed out favors around the company’s facilities during the afternoon. Thinking it a brilliant idea, I called my wife and told her that I would come home, still dressed as Santa, and surprise our three year old daughter. Wanting to be as ‘real’ as possible, I even filled my Santa sack with some of the empty wrapped boxes from under the company Christmas tree.
My wife agreed to open the drapes covering the patio door as I suggested that I come in through a gate at the rear of our property to give our daughter a good long look at Santa coming to her house. The drive home, aside from a few odd looks, was for the most part uneventful as I parked on the street and made my way around to the back of our lot.
It was at this point that I remembered that the gates to our fenced in yard were padlocked from the inside. Not wanting to spoil the moment, I decided to just climb the gate, Santa sack and all, and jump over into our yard with a loud HO, HO, HO!
It was at this exact moment that I also remembered why our gates were padlocked in the first place. We owned a Doberman Pinscher . . . Her name was Gretchen and under normal circumstances Gretchen was a kind and loveable dog. Seeing a big fat man in a red suit jump over the fence with a sack full of boxes apparently didn’t seem normal to Gretchen.
As Gretchen launched herself across our backyard, I tried pulling down the beard and calling her name. Might have worked on any other day, but the snarling and saliva told me I needed to be well into a plan ‘B’ I hadn’t thought of yet. Giving up the sack of faux gifts seemed like a no-brainer, but did little to distract the charging hound that was intent on getting a piece of the only thing moving. I was also struck by the fact that the inside of our fence didn’t have the same braces that made climbing over the back side so easy.
I hit the fence scratching and clawing like I had just woken up in a closed coffin and managed to make it over with everything except a few strands of white beard, a little red cloth and one black boot. I would have some explaining to do at the ‘ole party store about that boot. It wasn’t flesh, but Gretchen seemed quite satisfied with her prize.
Figuring that I had solved my biggest problem by getting out of there alive, I had another think coming. My three year old daughter, having been set up by her Mother and me, had witnessed the entire spectacle of our dog attacking Santa Clause and was now watching our pet rip her perceived presents to shreds in dog delirium. It seems that this is a bit much for a three year old to handle.
Thinking that I could just enter through the front of the house and calm her little fears proved to only exasperate her trauma as I had no real visual of just how disheveled I looked. A gasp from her Mother gave me some idea. This led us to the only other option; show her that Santa was really Daddy. She was going to need therapy, years and years of therapy.
Coming back to the present, as only a staple in your pinkie will do, I decide to just use the gutter clips for the rest of the lights and not involve EMS in this years festivities. The less memorable the holiday, the better it is around our house.
T. Michael Barclay
