Strap in, because Christmas is comin' atcha!
Look, I'm not a big Christmas fan. At best, it's tolerable. Though I am entertained by lights. The area I live in buts up against a neighboring suburb where the mayor (whose childhood nickname was “Bimbo” - no, really) clearly fucking LOVES CHRISTMAS and he charges his minions to deck the halls like a muhfucker. You know those grassy areas near entrance/exit ramps and such for the expressway that might have trees and whatnot on them? Bimbo decorates that shit, too. When I've been driving to work at silly o'clock, my eyes feast on a Christmas disco from Planet Santa. So that's okay.
The rest of it, though? Oh, no thank you. So I'm not going to wax poetic about the wonderfulosity of the season and blah blah blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah – I'm going to post a picture of a baby sloth eating a carrot and then discuss other things.
As we approach 2012, our final year on earth, I would like to state that the one thing I'd love to see in the final year is for the chronic woe-is-me'ers to sit back, check themselves, and proceed not to wreck themselves. Oh SHIT time for a baby orangutan disclaimer:
People, let's get it straight – if you think I'm talking about you, most likely I'm not. You KNOW who I'm talking about. There are people in this world who DO have grounds to woe-is-me it up in this joint. And they probably would if all the space wasn't taken up by the folks I'm about to narrow my eyes at. So, dial it back before you get all fretty-betty and whatever. Though, you know, if you do think it's about you? You might want to do some checking of self as well. DISCLAIMER CONCLUDED!
No, luscious readers, I am talking once again (because I'm almost certain I've covered this in a previous entry...oh, shitwiches, I have. SIGH. All right, I need to have a moment to myself and ponder where the hell this is going to go now. WAIT. I've GOT IT.
But first, let's seriously, seriously talk about baby sloths. Because my god, they are so adorable. I think it's their little faces that crack me up the most because they look perpetually bemused. They are so cool. If I could hold a baby sloth in one arm and a baby orangutan in the other, I'm 99 percent sure I could drop dead from absolute bliss.
Now, let's have another serious discussion about the trailer for “The Hobbit”. I read “The Hobbit” for the first time fairly recently and, well, it was not my bag...gins HA OH I KILL ME. I wasn't sure what the hell the finished product of the movie version was going to look like, but after seeing the trailer, I'm feeling like it's going to look like AWESOME. Martin Freeman looks awesome, there's Ian McKellen being all awesome in his Gandalfery, and so, it made me all happy inside. And awesome.
While I'm thinking about it, I'm planning on writing a little something prior to the New Year so...uh, mark your calendars, I guess? It will probably be about how resolutions are bullshit and don't get sucked into meeting expectations you can't possibly reach along with my yapping about, like, the year gone by and stuff. There may be maudlin content, I can't be sure. Of course, I have to remember to actually do it. And carve out some time to do it since I will be getting a new roomie next weekend in the form of my New Zealander futuregroom. Fret not, my sugarcoated candy canes, you'll hear from me again soon.
Finally, let me tell you a Christmas tale. It has settled into Nolan family legend and, since it is epic in scope, it must be told to others. Mainly because I think it's funny.
Some years ago, we decided that our Christmas Eve celebration (since that's when we do our family thing) needed to have a special cocktail to go along with our sugarplums and fine fatted goose. Emeril Lagasse created a little zinger of a thing called a “Poinsettia”. The Poinsettia contains champagne, vodka, and cranberry juice. Take a moment and read that again. Champagne. Vodka. Cranberry juice.
We also have special hors d'oeuvres that are only trotted out for Christmas Eve. One is marinated flank steak, wrapped around water chestnuts; the other, baked won tons filled with sausage, red peppers, and cheese mixed with ranch dressing. The flank steak is downright beloved. It is prized and there are never leftovers.
We enjoyed our Poinsettias quite enthusiastically, but none more so than my sister. We will call her...Auntie Sister. Auntie Sister found herself very full of Christmas joy – so full that she wound up sitting on the couch after dinner, a stewpot on her lap, and vomiting vigorously into it as the evening wore on. My nephew, perhaps five or six at the time, ran circles around the kitchen island declaring, “Call 911! Call 911! Auntie Sister is spitting up!” Auntie Sister retreated upstairs to the guest room and a silence fell over the house – well, a silence in as much as there were no heaving sounds. After a while, I was charged with finding out what Auntie Sister's status was. I crept into the guest room and Auntie Sister was laying on the floor (as you do), a corona of hurl around her head. She was alive and well (as well as you can be after your body hits the reverse on itself) and I found by going up to see how she was I'd also drawn the short straw on clean-up duty, so there I was...mopping up her leavings. Once she was snug in her bed (passed out), I came downstairs to family members questioning Auntie Sister's status. I replied, “Well, at least there's more flank steak now.”
*DROPS THE MIC*
Norman Rockwell ain't got shit on us.
Until next time, you gorgeous specimens of humankind, stay frosty and remember to always nuke the site from orbit, it's the only way to be sure.
“Prometheus” looks HOT. Ridely Scotch*, go on with your bad self.