My latest bit of published work (for the local paper) is a bad advice column. That's "bad advice" column, not bad "advice column." Though you can be the judge. (Don't you fucking judge me!)
Ask Me Anyway: Holiday Edition 2005
Wherein MO'SH mocks and dismisses the curious concerning holiday traditions, etc.
When stringing lights on outdoor shrubbery, is the brightness or quantity of more importance?
Oh, I don’t know. What works for you?
What is the protocol for purchasing a kitten as a Christmas gift for a loved one?
Here’s my protocol if I receive a kitten as a Christmas gift: 1. I contort my face into a combination of bewilderment and condescension. 2. I question the gift giver’s sobriety when he or she chose the undeniably inappropriate present. 3. I go, “What?” as the giver runs from the room in tears and the remaining company glare at me. 4. I exclaim, “Well, then YOU take the cat!” 5. Indignant, I plunge my coffee cup into the eggnog and guzzle it like a Viking in berserker mode.
What’s the hot new gadget for this holiday season?
Glad you asked! I’m very excited about this one. It’s portable, even pocket-sized, and utilizes low-power consumption. Your choice of colors is almost limitless. When opened and exposed to light, myriad possibilities await you! It’s a book. Try one.
Gadgets. Indeed!
I heard that Santa’s Elves get paid in Christmas cookies. Is this true?
Where’d you hear that? Huh? I never heard that. That sounds about right, though. I recall a story by T-Bone Slim that made mention of a workers’ revolt in a far northern village. The year was 1917. With World War I still raging in the nations below, Santa’s elves accounted for nearly 95% of the world’s toy production. The Workshop operated 24 hours a day. Angered by the one-two punch of IWW organizer Joe Hill’s murder in 1915 by copper bosses in Utah, and the Everett Massacre of 1916, Eugene the Elf, head shopkeeper of the Wooden Train Division, set about organizing the toy factory into a Wobbly Shop, the archetypal workplace democracy model in which managers were elected by workers. Tragically, before a vote could be taken, Eugene was sent to France for woolen serge, ostensibly for utilization in a new dollwear design, and was lost in the Battle of Vimy Ridge.
The silhouette of pipe and pot belly outside the frosted windows chilled the semi-revolutionary spines of the elves. No strike occurred. No mention of wages or weekends was made. No tiny fist was ever raised against “Der Kringle” except to grasp a warm sugar cookie.
However, a myth whispered among some workers of the world contends the Red-Nosed Reindeer was named after Rudolf Rocker, one of the most popular voices in the anarcho-syndicalist movement.
Eugene, you still evoke a spirit!
Where did the tradition of hanging mistletoe over a doorway begin?
Mistletoe is a hemiparasite whose roots penetrate the branches and trunks of trees to feed off the arbors’ nutrients. It also produces its own food through photosynthesis, thus sparing it the designation of “full-on” parasite. The kissing ritual was big with the Greeks during the festival of Saturnalia long before any mid-level office manager wagged a sprig above his secretary’s beehive. The pig! Taking advantage of that poor girl because he knows she’s behind on her rent, and she’s paying for her mother’s lumbago treatments and her sister’s stenography classes, and she needs that lousy job so much she’ll put up with his gin-soaked kisses every holiday party!
Mistletoe – the Christmas parasite. How fitting.
Why the lump of coal if you’re bad?
You should be HAPPY it’s only coal. Before that, it was a lump on the head, courtesy of Santa’s cousin Strolch, a thick brute whose shoulders met his earlobes. On Christmas Eve, St. Nick tore his list in half, handing the punishable portion to Stolch, who would mete out punition with his meaty, hairy paw. Riding shotgun on the sled, Stolch let loose with a noiseless laugh, his slobber leaving a silvery trail across the northern skies.
For a thankfully brief period between Stolch’s timely demise and the issuing of coal to the unruly, another kind of lump was left in the stocking. Black like coal, but not from a mine, I assure you.
Leave us say eight tiny reindeer were involved.
Exactly how did eggnog come about?
First let’s figure out what “nog” is. The egg, we know. It shoots out of a chicken. Nog may shoot out of a chicken as well. I’m not sure. Nog seems like the wrong word anyway. Slog would be better. Eggslog. On second thought, let’s stick with nog. Which, as you know, keeps the egg in the punch bowl. Yes. That’s nog: a sort of coagulant. Or coagulating agent. Only, “eggcoagulant” was too busy for a beverage sipped from a small mug. So, nog it became – eggnog! Delicious eggnog! And what about those eggnog lattes? That’s a belly warmer, all right! Heck, there’s dozens of recipes for eggnog. Maybe even as many as twenty! George Washington was quite a fan of eggnog and whipped up his own concoction that included rye whiskey, rum and sherry.
I cannot tell a lie: he was a drunk.
How did the Christmas stocking tradition begin?
Simple. When stockings were stuffed with gifts, the elastic gave out, stretching them beyond their intended sizes. But after the huge holiday meal, the stockings would fit their engorged hosts just right. Originally gloves were used, but your hands don’t usually get that fat after dinner, unless the bird is extra salty.
What makes you such an authority on holiday traditions?
The word, my friend. When, and how, to use it. Here’s an example: I am ending this column.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
