Here We Come!

What if I were to tell you that my name is Clyde, I’m three feet, six and a half inches tall (and proud of every stinking inch), I reside with Fatso and the Bitch north of Nome and women absolutely adore my little pink ass. Well, that’s what I am telling you, my name is Clyde, and since I’ve already got your attention, you shouldn’t mind if I elucidate further.

Let there be no lies, misconceptions or deception of thought between us. It’s time to come iceberg clean. So - let’s get a few things cleared up right away. Quick, before I forget.

The standard Americana depiction of the jolly elf hard at work is a crock of runny reindeer shit. Hours are long and conditions are, shall I say, quite chilly. I suppose that we are spared from boredom by the odd memory condition which I shall touch upon momentarily, yet how much satisfaction can be accrued even after only a few hours’ worth of the mindless tinkering that my blistered fingers remind me of oh so well at the end of a long day (and they are long here in the land of the midnight sun)?

Now Fatso is actually okay – that is if you enjoy random fartations and public displays of deep nose-spelunking. His jokes are stale and he possesses an odd proclivity to mindless winking but at least he makes the effort. As for the missus, now there’s your problem, she obviously hates us all and the arbitrary punishments that she dishes out are barbaric, wicked and, I must admit, highly creative.

There are two types of male elves – me, and the rest of those tiny peckers running around the place. That’s right, I’m endowed, and once a gal lies with me there’s really no going back. My nickname is Aurora. Aurora bored Alice… bored Janie, Clementine and a bunch of others! Yes sir, my northern light beams long and hard all through the night and I bring satisfying tidings of squealing delight!

And finally, Rudolph didn’t really have that shiny red nose – sad to say that what created all the fuss was in fact his poor rear end after the abominable snowman got done with him.

As for that odd memory condition I mentioned. It’s funny – we all understand the concept of past and future yet none of us can actually remember much beyond which lady elf we took out beyond the reindeer stalls last night and screwed and screwed sending mutual cries of ecstasy bouncing off the icy blue hills and into the shiny wilds of Moose Hollow. Even now my very first memory is that of me tap-tap-tapping away just yesterday morning on some piece of crap in the workshop and looking down at my aching calloused hands and wondering hey, just what the hell is going on here anyway? Some have speculated that maybe this is in fact hell, that this is the final lot for all the awful nasty folk, forever mindlessly tap-tap-tapping away in a place as cold and icy as a penguin’s sphincter, but damned if any of us can remember what we did to deserve such a fate! Maybe this is exactly how they want us – absent of memory, a pale ringing void resonating throughout our noggins, with no real motivation or goals and therefore no intention of making any trouble. Still, perfection has no reward here, so every once in while I don’t tap a nail in all the way or I leave a wooden edge un-sandpapered and splintery. For some reason that helps keep me sane and capable of carrying on.

Naturally it is beyond me how they are able to keep us without memory and existing essentially on a day to day, tap-tap-tap basis. Besides our normal work shifts we do our daily elfin calisthenics, eat regular elfin meals, and partake in weekly elfin cap fittings where strong bolts of electromagnetic energy is blasted into our caps in an effort to keep them spiffed and well-fitted. So, alas, the whole thing remains a mystery. In fact, it’s time for my weekly fitting right now – be right back.

Okay, I’m back. Where were we?

Yet there continues to be rumors, soft spoken whispers in the deep of the bleak North Pole night. One is that of the so-called Great Elf Rebellion of 1976. Just after the runaway commercialization of the holiday season had reached a fever pitch. After all, there’s only so much one elf can do, even an elf with a huge wiener, and it seems that the generation that came before us finally hit the wall. Literally. There are still stains from the violent collisions on the southern barricade that borders the courtyard to prove it. That is if it’s really true which I seriously doubt. But I am troubled by the fact that over the years my mother has urged me to say hello to grandpa every time we stroll past one particularly large and ostentatious stain.

I know what you’re thinking. What about the odd memory condition - but it seems there are some things that you just can’t forget no matter how much you’d like to. Call it instinct.

And then there’s the Underground Polar Railway, a subterranean escape route that unfortunately ran into a thick wall of antediluvian nickel-pan and as a result veered slightly off course and toward the west and subsequently beyond the Bering Strait, where it seems legions of our little people wound up as personal sex slaves to those insatiable hairy ogres of Greater Siberia. So I guess it’s rather fortunate that they can’t remember a couple of days ago, last week, or last month. And with no sense of the past there can be no real worry about the future. So good for them! It all works out in the end. Yet still, they must wonder as to the origins of their anal angst every morning when they rise once again and waddle off to the cold uncaring toilet. And their caps! My god, over time they must have become appallingly unfitted!

But now a glimmer of hope. There has been talk of a new spirit this Christmas of 2008, one more fitting and appropriate for these trying times out there in the Greater World. Given the state of the worldwide economy how could the concept of unlimited soulless gifting even be considered believable? Could there possibly be any wisdom in pursuing such a senseless endeavor, insisting to continue the yuletide ruse? Anybody with half a brain and a quarter of a heart would be able to tell that it was all a bunch of phooey and, accordingly, seek to find the true source of such inane material frivolity.

We could be found out!

And the reason that that would be such a bad thing eludes me at present.

Anyway, about six weeks ago we diverted all of our workshop efforts from the fabrication of silly toys towards the creation of an impressive array of hot pointed cattle prods, steely scrotum grippers, and surprisingly efficient nose-hair rippers, the purposes of which we can vividly imagine. But the coup de grace is the bitches’ very own concoction, more a scheme really, one of applying an impressive adhesive to the left testicle of the more deserving scoundrels and permanently attaching it to his right nipple. This year a special militia of covert operation elves has been gamely assembled and shall follow strict orders regarding the infiltration of the sprawling castles and erstwhile domains of those corporate executives and financial jerks who wantonly stole from the people. With brazen intent this militia will seek to take it all back while inflicting calculable pain in the process. And they will be taking pictures and posting ASAP to the internet at www.herewecome.com.

Greed! Amazing how it turned hedge fund managing Nobel laureates into pathetic dimwits – dumb as a door-nail Dickens might suggest. They road along the outer trajectories of the best-case scenarios for so long that they absolutely discarded the notion of an existence of the worst-case scenario. And to think that they were so concerned about an Obama presidency – for sure, the thing they should have feared most was what greeted them every morning when they faced the mirror to secure the knot in their dapper tie. And what now to tell all those earnest individuals hoping for a comfortable retirement? How about save more, expect less, and pray like hell!

Well, there hasn’t been this much genuine excitement around here for years. At least that’s what Fatso says and the bitch, chuckling while flexing one of those new steely scrotum grippers in her sweaty mitt, merrily confirms it.

If you’re offended by any of this then I would suggest that you haven’t learned a thing. Isn’t it about time we moved beyond the lame astonishment regarding the presentation of silly four-letter words, meaningless Freudian slips of the tongue and other crude suggestions? Sure, perhaps there has been one too many references to excruciating posterior folly contained herewith but after the brutal sodomization perpetrated upon the American people by their trusted financial leaders I find it quite apropos, totally legitimate and sadly fitting.

Now you might say, god damn it, why is this little shit telling me all this, isn’t it bad enough that I had my childhood Christmas fantasies yanked away from me at such at tender age and then my hard-earned retirement assets squandered at such a non-tender age without having to hear about all of this? But my friend, I haven’t told you a thing, you’re the one who chose to pick up this book, turn these pages, read these words. It was you! you! you! And like 99% of everything else that happens to you in your life, you have no one to blame but yourself and that little nugget of knowledge, my dear friend, is my personal gift to you on this joyous holiday occasion.

So look out motherfuckers. Here we come!

Idealist or Buffoon?

Stubborn Idealist or Idiotic Buffoon?.. you be the judge.

About a year ago I started training for long distance running and began feeling pain in my right knee. It didn't really hurt while running. Only afterwards and especially when standing up / sitting down. So I laid off the running (turned to elliptical and walking) and eventually saw a doctor last December (mri found normal arthritic wear and tear but nothing more).

Then about a month ago I got the old wild hair to participate in my hometown half-marathon - the OKC Memorial. I thought I'd mainly walk the thing and perhaps sprinkle in a little pitiful one-legged sledge trotting. To just, you know, speed things up a bit.

Sandwiched between a splendid windless blue sky Saturday and an equally tranquil Monday (today) was an absolutely abominable Sunday... spitting rain riding the northern gusts with wind chills in the upper 30s at the 6:30 am race time.

Oh well... and so of course I decided to go ahead and run those first couple of miles and then play it by ear from there. Ended up going on a 4-5 minute walk / 5-6 minute one-legged sledge trot routine and made out okay. Probably ended up runing about 8 miles and walked the rest. Didn't really feel anything until mile 10 or so. Ended up running (if that's what you want to call it) the last mile and really enjoyed the experience. My first. Don't tell my wife but it probably won't be my last.

As for today, my body is SCREAMING in a kind of bewildered protest. Just about everything aches... except my knees. Ha! I suspect that pain will return when all the rest recedes.