Adeste Infidelis

Note: An excerpt of this story appeared in the Arts and Entertainment Section of The Breeze on Thursday, December 8th. Here is the story in its entirety and with its original title. Happy Holidays from all of us here at Cross Town Rival

“Night, Beautiful,” Santa said as he emerged from the snow-covered townhouse and lit up a cigar, reveling in the lingering feeling of satisfaction that only came with a nocturnal rendezvous with Melanie. She worked as a customer service rep for Fisher-Price and met Santa while trying to resolve the great “Tickle Me Elmo” shortage of the mid-90’s. She quietly said “Ciao Babbo Natale” to show off her recent purchase of a “Learn Italian the Easy Way” book and gave him a wink and a wave before disappearing from the 2nd floor window.
“Babbo Natale,” Santa thought. “That’s got a nice ring to it.” He took a minute to brush off Melanie’s glitter and thought well of rolling in the snow to remove the smell of Chanel No. 5 and Boones Farm from his suit. As he shuffled towards the sleigh, Rudolph stared down his boss with a look that would turn an alpaca sterile. Santa answered back, “Don’t give me that look, Rudy. I don’t want to hear it.”
Rudolph’s nose glowed like an electric stove left on overnight. “She’s gonna find out, and she’s gonna be so disappointed in you. After all she’s done for you, sacrificing her career to stay home with the kids so you could traipse around the world, you turn around and do this. You disgust me, you know that? I don’t even want to guide your sleigh tonight.”
Santa climbed onto the sleigh, flipped on the running lights, and grunted at Rudolph: “Oh, you’ll guide my sleigh tonight, or I’ll send you back to that island of creepy and demented toys I plucked you from. I’m sorry, that was cruel. Rudy, you just don’t understand. You don’t see how bad it’s gotten because you’re always out in the stable. Mrs. Claus is colder to me than Donner’s nose after he got stuck outside in the blizzard. She’s had a headache for two and a half years now. Melanie understands me, and she makes me feel like a man, something that hasn’t happened in a long time. Mrs. Claus has no idea what I’m going through.”
Rudolph shook his head and readied for takeoff. He’d been through this before: The late night calls to scramble the reindeer, the two-hour trip to Nova Scotia, idling outside while Santa has his tryst, and the guilt-laden trip back home to his boss’s wife. Mrs. Claus had asked him once about these late night trips, to which Rudolph simply responded, “We’re researching new routes for next year. Big chunk of conversions in China.” It killed him inside to lie to Mrs. Claus, who always had a carrot or apple for him and the boys when she came to the stable, but he had a doe at home and a fawn on the way, and wouldn’t think about putting his job in jeopardy. Plus, Santa had always been good to him, so he did what he could to stomach Santa’s infidelity.
“Three quarters of a mile, Kringle’s on the ball,” Santa barked to the control tower. The tower called back: “Santa, this Lt. Commander Zevon. You’re wife gave us explicit instructions that you are to come see her as soon as you return. We’ll take care of powering down the sled.”
“Pa rum pum pum pum!” Santa thought, running through possible excuses in his mind as to where he could have been. “Montenegro. No. Madagascar. No. How about Missouri. It’s dark in Missouri. That’s the ticket.” This wouldn’t be the first time Santa had to work his way out of a jam. Mrs. Claus got suspicious two months earlier when Santa arranged to meet Melanie at a routine mall visit, and when she gave Santa an overly joyful holiday greeting, a rightfully suspicious Mrs. Claus started asking questions. Santa swore nothing was happening, and bought a set of diamond earrings from the Kay Jewelers next to the food court to smooth things over with her. This time, however, would not be so easy. He hoped the roll in the snow he’d taken earlier would combine with the scent of Salvadorian cigar to mask any tinge of Melanie that remained on his suit. He snubbed out his cigar and entered the kitchen to see Mrs. Claus sitting at the table nervously rotating her coffee cup.
Mrs. Claus stood up in a bolt when Santa walked through the door. “Where have you been?” she said. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, SANTA? I have been worried sick about you. I call over to the control tower and they say you’ve taken the sled out at 2 AM for recon? Recon? At 2 AM? This is the third time this week, and don’t give me that “there’s a lot of conversions in China” line again, because it isn’t even dark right now in China. Well, out with it: are you going to stand there all fat and jolly, or do you have an explanation for yourself?”
“Oh come on, baby, you know Santa has to work to do. I have to work out new routes while it’s dark, and right now, it’s dark in Missouri. How else am I supposed to give the good little boys and girls in Missouri their gifts if I don’t know where they live? Well, do you have an answer? Do you? I’m sorry baby, I just get so scared sometimes, scared that the good little boys and girls of the world aren’t gonna get their presents. You know I get this way around Christmas time. Come here and give ol Santa a hug.”
Mrs. Claus softened her stance and sauntered towards her husband, but as they were about to embrace, she recoiled. She glared at Santa and then slowly lowered her eyes to Santa’s right front pocket. Santa followed her eyes down and gasped: Sticking out of his right front pocket was the used wrapper for “Santa’s Little Insurance Policy,” a candy-cane flavored prophylactic created especially for North Pole Industries. The game was up.
A downtrodden Santa stumbled out the front door just as Rudolph trotted over. “I heard yelling from way over in the stable. I came to see what was wrong,” Rudolph said.
“You were right, Rudy. She found out, and she’s so disappointed in me. I don’t think diamond earrings will save me this time. I should let her cool down for a couple of days, maybe buy her a fur coat or something. Rudy, I know it’s asking a lot, but can I stay in the stable tonight?”
Rudolph reluctantly nodded. “No problem, old friend. Dasher and some of the elves are out on a goodwill tour with the USO. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you slept in his stall.”
“I appreciate it, Rudy. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Santa. Let’s see if we can find some extra hay to keep you warm.” [Click Here to Read More]

Still Fighting It

Note: This piece appears in the Thursday, December 8th edition of The Breeze. It is under the title "Pragmatic Graduation Advice," which conveniently fills the column space. Very pleasing to the eye.

Although they receive less pomp and circumstance than their counterparts in the spring, a number of our fellow students are graduating next week and forever leaving our fine academic institution. To the graduates, as well as the rest of the student body, I faithfully submit my speech for the Fall Commencement Exercises, which was vehemently rejected by the University. Enjoy:
As I stand here today and look out over this vast sea of faces, I am emboldened to think of the power and promise that lies in each individual present today. If I have one piece of advice for my fellow graduates sitting before me, it is this: Stop. Do Not Graduate. Be very, very afraid. If you walk across this stage today and leave the confines of JMU, you will be making the greatest mistake of your young life. Allow me to give you a preview of what life outside this university will look like.
The vile trifecta of adulthood, marriage and parenting possess the same amount of joy as repeatedly slamming your hand in a car door while wolverines gnaw on your ankles. After a drunken night at TGI Friday’s, you’ll find yourself married, and by slipping a ring on your finger, your chances of living an exciting and stimulating life will diminish so rapidly that you will actually hear your dreams plummeting through the church sanctuary and into the basement. During your married life, you will wake up every morning with a headache, one that no amount of aspirin can take away, and after rolling over and hitting the snooze alarm twice, each of your respective headaches will in turn wake up and begin their day by taking all of your home’s hot water during their shower. You’ll live for Matchbox 20 reunion tours and trips to the Kroger when the nubile cashier smiles and asks to see your ID. You’ll look confused for a minute, then revel briefly in the idea that Susie Check-Out Girl thinks you look anywhere near twenty-one.
If you think your descent into desperation will reach its endpoint when the children leave the house, then your life in retirement will prove how far down this rabbit hole goes. Society will demand that you buy a Ford Crown Victoria Octogenarian Assault Vehicle, so called because any bike-riding child you happen to back over on your way to the early bird special at Cracker Barrel will fare far worse than you and your shiny chrome bumper. The crossword puzzle will change from a mere hobby to your best friend in the world, and your trips to the doctor’s office will increase exponentially, with at least one doctor per week reminding you that “you’re not getting any younger,” and that “you need to relax and take it easy once in a while.”
Relaxing will prove difficult, mind you, as you will be enraged to find that the world you once knew and loved has been replaced by a postmodern Sodom and Gomorrah. The society each of you will help build will ultimately destroy the values that you hold dear and mock you mercilessly for valuing them in the first place. Moreover, I have it on a good source that the government, in an attempt to control the horrendous costs of Social Security, will institute federally mandated old-people fights to both raise revenue and entertain millions across America, most of whom have always dreamed of watching their grandparents fight with a clubs, stones, and other crude weapons. While this situation looks bleak, do take comfort knowing that the television program “Old People Battle Royale” will twenty years later be followed by “Geriatric Axe Fight” and “Senior Citizens versus The Volcano.” So, at least we have that going for us.
To quote the American philosopher Bill Hicks, “I don’t mean to sound cold and cynical, but I am, so that’s the way it comes out.” Friends, the glimpse into the future that I gave you today is just a small sample of the empty, painful existence that awaits you in the outside world, the cruel realities of which will only reveal themselves once you passed the point of no return. Leave now, while you have the chance. They didn’t lock the doors; I know because I checked on my way in. Flee with your lives, my friends; you don’t have to graduate. [Click Here to Read More]

Cracker Bomb!

Cracker Bomb Fantastic! Are those new links to the right? [Click Here to Read More]

What Would Jack Bauer Do?

Nota Bene: This piece will appear in the Monday Dec 5th edition of The Breeze. The new season on 24 will start in January. I will end this note having used three future tense verbs in the three consecutive sentences followed by a subjunctive clause.

In the dangerous and tempestuous time in which we live, a hero must rise from the masses to lead America through the jungle of global politics and to guide us through the challenges of the day. This man must stand like a lighthouse on a cliff, safely guiding ships into the harbor of moral behavior and enlightened thinking. This man is Jack Bauer, the government agent played by ubermensch Kiefer Sutherland on Fox's hit drama "24." In the same way we look to great men like Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. for guidance, we too should look to Jack Bauer on how to handle ourselves in the brave new world in which we live.
For those you poor unfortunate souls without access to network television, each season of "24" follows Jack Bauer trying to stop a cataclysmic event over a single day, with each episode allotted one hour in time. In four seasons, Bauer has thwarted two presidential assassinations, the detonation of a nuclear device over Los Angeles, the release of a weaponized virus across the urban centers of the United States (including Los Angeles), and a nuclear missile strike on Los Angeles. It is noteworthy to mention that after season four, the city of Los Angeles asked the producers of "24" to stop placing the city in fictional imminent danger, as the constant fictional threat has substantially driven down tourism revenue.
While Bauer has been successful in all his attempted thrwartings, the constant fighting with terrorists and need for plot twists have been at great personal expense to Bauer. In the 96 hours of show thus far, Bauer has been shot, stabbed, tortured, widowed, killed (twice), and finally forced to choose exile over internment in a Chinese jail. Jack Bauer's leadership and guidance should be respected above all other television characters, as no man or woman has given more to their nation while being subjected to such great personal strife than Jack Bauer. If humanity asks "What Would Jack Bauer Do?" and follow his example, then we can determine the best response to any situation.
For example, Jack Bauer would not have stood for the recent riots in Paris, France. Armed only with his trusty governmental issue handgun and loyal wingman Tony Almeida, Jack Bauer would have swept the streets of Paris and quelled the riots faster than you can say "We're out of time!” It took French authorities almost three weeks to stop the riots. Three weeks? Bauer would have this done in less than three hours, with enough time left over for an emotional scene with his love interest whom he will ultimately disown after she comes between him and fighting for America.
Asking the question "What Would Jack Bauer Do?" will not only improve the world as a whole but also improve your everyday life. Ever waited for a computer in the library and seen Johnny Ballcap checking his fantasy football team? Jack Bauer wouldn't stand for that. An emphatic cocking of your firearm and a stern "Get off the computer, or I will be the last thing you'll ever see!" will get the job done with little collateral damage. Someone getting fresh with your sorority sister at a party? A solid head butt to the perpetrator's nose will do the trick. Believe your roommate Frank ate all the peanut butter? Tie Frank to a chair and say, "You probably don't think that I can force this towel down your throat. But trust me, I can." A fresh can of peanut butter will be in your kitchen toot sweet.
While some may consider Jack Bauer’s tactics barbaric and violent, we cannot ignore one staggering fact: Jack Bauer has a 100% success rate in defense of his country, playing error free ball throughout four seasons of fictional government service. This rate of action to success is higher than any other TV government agent, besting Sydney Bristow of “Alias” by almost twenty percentage points. This standard of excellence alone justifies our search for ultimate wisdom and truth in Jack Bauer, and through the examination of his words and deeds, we can live a fuller life. Follow Jack Bauer, and he will set you free. [Click Here to Read More]