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December 3rd, 2009
Santa sat in my front room, beer in hand. I knew I’d been had. Since when did Santa speak French and smoke cigarettes? A closer inspection revealed a crop of black hair hiding under the cheap white wig. Dammit! This wasn’t Santa, the bringer of gifts, the John Frum of the cargo cult that is Christmas. It was my crummy Auntie Annemarie. In Yuletide drag. I would get even. I got out my pencil and dashed off a letter to the North Pole. Once news of this unauthorized impersonation got out, there would be no more Molson Canadians for her.
October 14th, 2006
Today is Sunday. I just crawled out of bed. It is unreasonable to expect great thoughts at this time.
OK, I'm 76, and while I feel OK and enjoy my life, 76 sounds awfully old. Perhaps related to that sobering fact is that I notice that I'm saying "Thank you God" now and then.
I never used to say that. I remember the time when, drunk, I sat on my bed and cried out, "God, if you're there, make that picture move!" But that picture on the wall didn't even quiver.
H'm, that says that my days are getting better.