Do you know how I could tell the holiday season was upon us? It wasn't when I heard Bing Crosby crooning "It's Beginning to Look A Lot like Christmas," standing among the discounted pumpkins in Wal*Mart the day after Halloween. It wasn't when the perky newscaster informed me that this year Thanksgiving day was the new Black Friday, that Black Friday would run until Cyber Monday and that if I had any hope of getting a deal on the hottest gifts I should've done all my shopping by last Tuesday. This all dovetails neatly with vodka and Oreo Wednesday. Just wake me up for really, really casual Friday, okay?My first inkling of the approaching yuletide festivities might have been when I awoke from dozing in front of the TV this afternoon buried under the first real catfall of Winter, but I missed even that clue. Heck, it wasn't even when some real go-getter on Pintrest suggested we decorate Cheerios with candy sprinkles and leave them out with Santa's cookies as "elf doughnuts." Great, like we don't have enough mouths to feed already!
No, I realized that the holiday season was truly upon us when my wife informed me that our furnace expired-- and oh, by the way, the brakes are going out on the car.
So what you are telling me is that not only do we have no heat in the house, if we decide to go over the river and throw the woods to Grandma's house we are liable to just keep going?
Okay... Deep breaths... Just roll with the punches. We've got a couple of electric heaters to get us through the cold nights. At least we don't have water, snow or a complete power outage like the poor folks on the East coast. And I suppose we could wrap a chain around an anvil and toss it out the back of the car if we really want to stop someplace. I guess I can't really complain. It could be worse.
As a strict adherent to all of Judge Murphy's edicts I know what I'm talking about. I take my role as an object lesson for the rest of you quite seriously. How many times have I walked up in the middle of conversation, "...Well, could be worse. at least you're not--" only to be met with foot shuffling and awkward silence?
"At least he's not who? Who are you talking about? Fellas? Hey, where ya going? At least he's not who?"
You would think it would get to me. Some say that weird twitch in my left eyelid is proof of a man on the edge. I just try to shrug it off. What else can I do? If you can't be in on the great cosmic joke of fate you might as well enjoy being the butt. So I just smile and keep watching the skies for that final punchline. At least if I get smashed by a falling satellite I'll be imortalized in the pages of Ripley's Believe It Or Not, right between the man with three noses and the water skiing squirrel. A man couldn't ask for a better legacy than that.
