Saturday, December 24, 2016

Christmas Letter Two

GREETINGS, GREETINGS, GREETINGS,.............................................

Baby Ann Pica Corona Appleton was so-called born to cousin Elle Appleton on a day in June. She was apparently named after the type style and typewriter brand Elle was using during conception. Oh well, another year, another set of random moments encircled by the joy of submersing one's hands in a newly opened can of Crisco until you've lost one of the dog's favorite play toys.

"Tag, you're it."
"Dad, please speed up the tractor."
"Oh, you were talking to me, uhhhhh, no."
"That will be $3.21 at the first drive through window please."

These were a few of the many responses I received while asking girls out on dates this year. They say if you can hit over .300 lifetime you can make the hall of fame.  I'm on track to earn a seat next to Bob Ueker in the announcer's booth.


My cousin no longer works at Burger King.  He was fired for too many long debates about "milk versus cattle" with newly hired coworkers.  However, his IQ test came back negative.  He was very relieved.

My aunt no longer has spider mites burrowing under her skin.  After trying many techniques without success, she consulted an Eastern 'Good Humor Man' (yes, I know, strange Chinese to English translation).  He taught her to become a spider mite, much like modern day method actors.  She then became a spider mite, entered her own skin, infiltrated the spider mite population, then lured them out of the skin by convincing them they were missing Danny Glover's new Broadway extravaganza, "Me, Danny, Making Appealing Spider Mite Sounds".


I have found that most even numbered years work best for me as long I don't step within a normal trowel mark's length from any visible seams or cracks in concrete.
It's more enjoyable to be a social misfit if you are aware of it.
The amount of time you take using the ATM machine is in direct correlation to the number of jelly bellies you will be issued upon entrance to Heaven. (Faster is better, try the root beer, they are remarkable).

The year was actually pretty good for me.  I went a record 137 days in a row without getting stabbed with a corkscrew.  I ceased smoking.  While utilizing the patch system, I had only 2 or 3 heart attacks per day before returning to normal.  Unfortunately, a water balloon grew inside one of my finger joints.  I go under the knife this week in order to rectify the situation.  They say there is only a small chance that it is gang related.  I toured several pet stores and made a few discoveries.  Out of the eighty-three small poodles I measured, none would actually fit inside a tea cup.  This leads me to believe that someone like Paul Bunyon, or the inventor of trickle down economics came up with the name tea cup poodle.  Most large parrots will only bite as many fingers as you possess.  Finally, weekly gummy bear rentals are nearly unheard of in Missouri.

As many culinary aficionados like myself like to say on occasion, "My world seems to be simmering."  My ski jump clothes have not been properly altered and the chive population is on the downswing, so the important parts of life are sort of on hold.  1997 should be a fine year.  If there is another baseball strike, we will play baseball instead of watch it.  If there is a teamsters strike and fruit is undeliverable, we will grow our own fruit to eat.  If moths eat holes in our underwear, we will curse the moths.  We will prevail.  My only request is that 1997 move in slow like a drugged banshee viewed with Bionic Man style special effects.  No sudden movements please................................

As George Orwell once said, "What the Hell year is it anyway?"

More Love and an equal amount progress

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