Date: 01 Dec 95 02:47:47 EST
From: Anthony T. Field
Subject: The Farther Side
To: Anthony T. Field
Greetings!
Here's a little Christmas advice for you!
Thanks to Heidi for this one! :-)
Enjoy,
Tony
*
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A Christmas Message from Me to You
----------------------------------
To me Christmas means family, and family means friends, and
friends mean getting together. And if you have your heart set on having a
party, there are a couple of things you should keep in mind. The worst
thing that you could possibly do, would be to throw the kind of party
where your guests wake up the next day, and call you to say that they had
a nice time. Now you'll be expected to throw another party next year.
What you should do is throw the kind of party where your guests
wake up several days from now and call their lawyers to find out if
they've been indicted for anything. You want your guests to be soooo
anxious to avoid a recurrence of your party that they immediately start
planning parties of their own, a year in advance, just to prevent you from
having another one...
If your party is successful, the police will knock on your door,
unless your party is very successful in which they will lob tear gas
through your living room window. As host, your job is to make sure that
they don't arrest anybody. Or if they're dead set on arresting someone,
your job is to make sure that someone isn't you.
Now, if you still want to throw a party, here is a little guide to
see how well your party is going:
Festivity Level 1: Your guests are chatting amiably with each
other, admiring your Christmas-tree ornaments (even the blinking reindeer
puppets) , playing Trivial Pursuit or Uno, singing carols around the piano,
sipping their drinks and nibbling on hors d'oeuvres.
Festivity Level 2: Your guests are talking loudly -- sometimes to
each other, and sometimes to nobody at all, rearranging your
Christmas-tree ornaments, cheating at Uno, singing "Grandma got Run Over
by a Reindeer" around the piano, gulping their drinks and wolfing down
hors d'oeuvres.
Festivity Level 3: Your guests are arguing violently with
inanimate objects, singing "I Can't Get No Satisfaction," gulping down
other peoples drinks, wolfing down Christmas ornaments and placing hors
d'oeuvres in the piano to see what happens when the little hammers strike.
Festivity Level 4: Your guests, hors d'oeuvres smeared all over
their naked bodies, are chanting and performing a ritual dance around the
burning Christmas tree. The piano is missing.
You generally want to keep your party somewhere around level 3,
unless you rent and own Firearms, in which case you can go to level 4.
Date: 02 Dec 95 05:52:17 EST
From: Anthony T. Field
Subject: The Farther Side
To: Anthony T. Field
Greetings!
Here's a little more Christmas stuff, inspired in part by the lighting of the tree celebrations
on the Green this afternoon! Thanks to Elidorfa for this one!
Enjoy,
Tony
>> ********The 12 Days, Deconstructed*******************
>>
>> On the 12th day of the Eurocentrically imposed midwinter festival, my
>> potential-acquaintance-rape-survivor gave to me,
>>
>> TWELVE males reclaiming their inner warrior through ritual drumming.
>>
>> ELEVEN pipers piping (plus the 18-member pit orchestra made up of
>> members in good standing of the Musicians Equity Union as called for in
>> their union contract even though they will not be asked to play a
>> note...)
>>
>> TEN melanin-deprived testosterone-poisoned scions of the patriarchal
>> ruling class system leaping,
>>
>> NINE persons engaged in rhythmic self-expression,
>>
>> EIGHT economically disadvantaged female persons stealing milk-products
>> from enslaved Bovine-Americans,
>>
>> SEVEN endangered swans swimming on federally protected wetlands,
>>
>> SIX enslaved fowl-Americans producing stolen nonhuman animal products,
>>
>> FIVE golden symbols of culturally sanctioned enforced domestic
>> incarceration,
>>
>> (NOTE: after member of the Animal Liberation Front threatened to throw
>> red paint at my computer, the calling birds, French hens and partridge
>> have been reintroduced to their native habitat. To avoid further
>> animal-American enslavement, the remaining gift package has been
>> revised.)
>>
>> FOUR hours of recorded whale songs,
>>
>> THREE deconstructionist poets,
>>
>> TWO Sierra Club calendars printed on recycled processed tree carcasses
>>
>> and a Spotted Owl activist chained to an old-growth pear tree.
Date: 02 Dec 95 22:16:51 EST
From: Anthony T. Field
Subject: The Farther Side
To: Anthony T. Field
Greetings...
Another Classic:
Enjoy!
Tony
IS THERE A SANTA CLAUS?
=======================
1) No known species of reindeer can fly. BUT there are 300,000 species
of living organisms yet to be classified, and while most of these are
insects and germs, this does not COMPLETELY rule out flying reindeer
which only Santa has ever seen.
2) There are 2 billion children (persons under 18) in the world. BUT
since Santa doesn't (appear) to handle the Muslim, Hindu, Jewish and
Buddhist children, that reduces the workload to 15% of the total - 378
million according to Population Reference Bureau. At an average (census)
rate of 3.5 children per household, that's 91.8 million homes. One
presumes there's at least one good child in each.
3) Santa has 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different
time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west
(which seems logical). This works out to 822.6 visits per second. This is
to say that for each Christian household with good children, Santa has
1/1000th of a second to park, hop out of the sleigh, jump down the
chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the
tree, eat whatever snacks have been left, get back up the chimney, get
back into the sleigh and move on to the next house. Assuming that each of
these 91.8 million stops are evenly distributed around the earth (which,
of course, we know to be false but for the purposes of our calculations we
will accept), we are now talking about .78 miles per household, a total
trip of 75-1/2 million miles, not counting stops to do what most of us
must do at least once every 31 hours, plus feeding and etc.
This means that Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second, 3,000
times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man-
made vehicle on earth, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4
miles per second - a conventional reindeer can run, tops, 15 miles per
hour.
4) The payload on the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming
that each child gets nothing more than a medium-sized lego set (2
pounds), the sleigh is carrying 321,300 tons, not counting Santa, who is
invariably described as overweight. On land, conventional reindeer can
pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that "flying reindeer" (see
point #1) could pull TEN TIMES the normal amount, we cannot do the job
with eight, or even nine. We need 214,200 reindeer. This increases the
payload - not even counting the weight of the sleigh - to 353,430 tons.
Again, for comparison - this is four times the weight of the Queen
Elizabeth.
5) 353,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air
resistance - this will heat the reindeer up in the same fashion as a
spacecraft reentering the earth's atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer
will absorb 14.3 QUINTILLION joules of energy. Per second. Each. In
short, they will burst into flame almost instantaneously, exposing the
reindeer behind them, and create deafening sonic booms in their wake.
The entire reindeer team will be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a
second. Santa, meanwhile, will be subjected to centrifugal forces
17,500.06 times greater than gravity. A 250-pound Santa (which seems
ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of his sleigh by 4,315,015
pounds of force.
In conclusion - If Santa ever DID deliver presents on Christmas Eve, he's
dead now.
Date: 04 Dec 95 01:28:18 EST
From: Anthony T. Field
Subject: The Farther Side
To: Anthony T. Field
Greetings...
I hope all of your holiday mail is better than this!
Enjoy, and Good Luck with finals!
Tony
_______________________________________________________
TWELVE DAYS TO XMAS
December 14th
Dearest John:
I went to the door today and the postman delivered a partridge in a pear tree.
What a delightful gift. I couldn't have been more surprised.
With dearest love and affection, Agnes
--------------------------------------
December 15th
Dearest John:
Today the postman brought your very sweet gift. Just imagine, two turtle
doves.... I'm just delighted at your very thoughtful gift. They are just
adorable.
All my love, Agnes
------------------
December 16th
Dear John:
Oh, aren't you the extravagant one! Now I must protest. I don't deserve such
generosity. Three french hens. They are just darling but I must insist....
you're just too kind.
Love Agnes
---------
December 17th
Today the postman delivered four calling birds. Now really! They are beautiful,
but don't you think enough is enough? You're being too romantic.
Affectionately, Agnes
---------------------
December 18th
Dearest John:
What a surprise! Today the postman delivered five golden rings. One for each
finger. You're just impossible, but I love it. Frankly, John, all those
squawking birds were beginning to get on my nerves.
All my love, Agnes
December 19th
Dear John:
When I opened the door there were actually six geese a-laying on my front
steps. So you're back to the birds again, huh? Those geese are huge. Where will
I ever keep them? The neighbors are complaining and I can't sleep through the
racket. PLEASE STOP!
Cordially, Agnes
----------------
December 20th
John:
What's with you and those fucking birds???? Seven swans a-swimming. What kind
of goddam joke is this? There's bird shit all over the house and they never
stop
the racket. I'm a nervous wreck and I can't sleep all night. IT'S NOT
FUNNY.......So stop with those fucking birds.
Sincerely, Agnes
----------------
December 21st
OK Buster:
I think I prefer the birds. What the hell am I going to do with eight maids
a-milking? It's not enough with all those birds and eight maids a-milking, but
they had to bring their own goddam cows. There is shit all over the lawn and I
can't move into my own house.
Just lay off me. SMART ASS.
Ag
----------------
December 22nd
Hey Shithead:
What are you? Some kind of sadist? Now there's nine pipers playing. And Christ
- do they play. They never stopped chasing those maids since they got here
yesterday morning. The cows are upset are stepping all over those screeching
birds. No wonder they screech. What am I going to do? The neighbors have started
a petetion to evict me. You'll get yours.
>From Ag
----------------
December 23rd
You Rotten Prick:
Now there's ten ladies dancing - I don't know why I call those sluts ladies.
They've been balling those nine pipers all night long. Now the cows can't sleep
and they've got diarrhea. My living room is a river of shit. The commisioner of
buildings has subpoenaed me to give cause why the building shouldn't be
condemned. I'm sicking the police on you.
One who means it, Ag
--------------------
December 24th
Listen Fuckhead:
What's with the eleven lords a-leaping on those maids and aforementioned
"ladies"? Some of those broads will never walk again. Those pipers ran through
the maids and have been commiting sodomy with the cows. All 234 of the birds
are dead. They have been trampled to death in the orgy. I hope you're
satisfied, you rotten swine.
Your sworn enemy, Miss Agnes McCallister
--------------------------------------
December 25th (From the law offices Taeker, Spredar, and Baegar)
Dear Sir:
This is to acknowledge your latest gift of tweleve fiddlers fiddling, which you
have seen fit to inflict on our client, Miss Agnes McCallister. The
destruction, of course, was total.
All correspondence should come to our attention. If you should attempt to reach
Miss McCallister at Happy Dale Sanitarium, the attendants have instructions to
shoot you on sight. With this letter, please find attached a warrant for your
arrest.
THE END
(thanks to Neesha for this one)
Date: 05 Dec 95 00:39:51 EST
From: Anthony T. Field
Subject: The Farther Side
To: Anthony T. Field
Greetings...
One more Christmas poem for you, from Jennifer. Following it is a rebuttal to the
investigation into te existance of Santa.
By the time most of you read this, I will be FINISHED with classes this term! I'm off for
the next three months, and in late March, I'll be back here. That means no Farther Side for
the wintertime, at least definitely not on a regular basis. Just a bit of advance warning...
Thursday will be the last one this term.
Good luck with finals, (I'm up all night tonight working on Physics, thanks very much)
and to those who don't get to see me before going home, have a great holiday!
Enjoy,
Tony
A Christmas poem
'Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck...
How to live in a world that's politically correct?
His workers no longer would answer to "Elves".
"Vertically Challenged" they were calling themselves.
And labor conditions at the north pole
Were alleged by the union to stifle the soul.
Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety,
Released to the wilds by the Humane Society.
And equal employment had made it quite clear
That Santa had better not use just reindeer.
So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid,
Were replaced with 4 pigs, and you know that looked stupid!
The runners had been removed from his sleigh;
The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.A.
And people had started to call for the cops
When they heard sled noises on their roof-tops.
Second-hand smoke from his pipe had his workers quite frightened.
His fur trimmed red suit was called "Unenlightened."
And to show you the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows,
Rudolf was suing over unauthorized use of his nose
And had gone on Geraldo, in front of the nation,
Demanding millions in over-due compensation.
So, half of the reindeer were gone; and his wife,
Who suddenly said she'd enough of this life,
Joined a self-help group, packed, and left in a whiz,
Demanding from now on her title was Ms.
And as for the gifts, why, he'd ne'er had a notion
That making a choice could cause so much commotion.
Nothing of leather, nothing of fur,
Which meant nothing for him. And nothing for her.
Nothing that might be construed to pollute.
Nothing to aim. Nothing to shoot.
Nothing that clamored or made lots of noise.
Nothing for just girls. Or just for the boys.
Nothing that claimed to be gender specific.
Nothing that's warlike or non-pacific.
No candy or sweets...they were bad for the tooth.
Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.
And fairy tales, while not yet forbidden,
Were like Ken and Barbie, better off hidden.
For they raised the hackles of those psychological
Who claimed the only good gift was one ecological.
No baseball, no football...someone could get hurt;
Besides, playing sports exposed kids to dirt.
Dolls were said to be sexist, and should be passe;
And Nintendo would rot your entire brain away.
So Santa just stood there, disheveled, perplexed;
He just could not figure out what to do next.
He tried to be merry, tried to be gay,
But you've got to be careful with that word today.
His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground;
Nothing fully acceptable was to be found.
Something special was needed, a gift that he might
Give to all without angering the left or the right.
A gift that would satisfy, with no indecision,
Each group of people, every religion;
Every ethnicity, every hue,
Everyone, everywhere...even you.
So here is that gift, it's price beyond worth...
"May you and your loved ones enjoy peace on earth."
************************************************************************
******
Of course with any statement like that there is bound to be a rebuttal
Garth
SUBJ: Rebuttal to "Santa Physics"
Recently there was a debate-style posting in rec.humor.funny given a
proposition: IS THERE A SANTA CLAUS? A friend of mine to whom I
passed it along emailed me the note below and asked me to post it
for him...
Rebuttal: Several key points are overlooked by this callous,
amateurish "study."
1) Flying reindeer: As is widely known (due to the excellent
historical documentary "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," the flying
reindeer are not a previously unknown species of reindeer, but were
in fact given the power of flight due to eating magic acorns. As is
conclusively proven in "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" (a no-punches-
pulled look at life in Santa's village), this ability has bred true
in subsequent generations of reindeer--obviously the magic acorns
imprinted their power on a dominant gene sequence within the reindeer
DNA strand.
2) Number of households: This figure overlooks two key facts.
First of all, the first major schism in the Church split the Eastern
Churches, centered in Byzantium, from the Western, which remained
centered in Rome. This occurred prior to the Gregorian correction
to the Julian calendar. The Eastern churches (currently called
Orthodox Churches) do not recognize the Gregorian correction for
liturgical events, and their Christmas is, as a result, several days
after that of the Western Churches'. Thus, Santa gets two shots at
delivering toys.
Secondly, the figure of 3.5 children per household is based on the
gross demographic average, which includes households with no
children at all. The number of children per household, when figured
as an average for households with children, would therefore have to
be adjusted upward. Also, the largest single Christian denomination
is Roman Catholic, who, as we all know, breed like rabbits. If you
don't believe me, ask my four brothers and two sisters--they'll
back me up. Due to the predominance of Catholics within Christian
households, the total number of households containing Christian
children would have to be adjusted downward to reflect the
overloading of Catholics beyond a standard deviation from the
median.
Also, the assertion that each home would contain at least one good
child would be reasonable enough if there were in fact an even 3.5
children per household. However, since the number of children per
household is distributed integrally, there is a significant number
(on the order of several million) of one-child Christian households.
Even though only children are notoriously spoiled--and therefore
disproportionately inclined toward being naughty--since it's the
holidays we'll be generous and give them a fifty-fifty chance of
being nice. This removes one half of the single-child households
from Santa's delivery schedule, which has already been reduced by
the removal of the Orthodox households from the first delivery run.
3) Santa's delivery run (speed, payload, etc.): These all suffer
from the dubious supposition that there is only one Santa Claus.
The name "Santa" is obviously either Spanish or Italian, two ethnic
groups which are both overwhelmingly Catholic. The last name Claus
suggests a joint German/Italian background. His beginnings,
battling the Burgermeister Meisterburger, suggest he grew up in
Bavaria (also predominantly Catholic). The Kaiser style helmets of
the Burgermeister's guards, coupled with the relative isolation of
the village, suggest that his youth was at the very beginning of
Prussian influence in Germany. Thus, Santa and Mrs. Claus have
been together for well over one hundred years. If you think that
after a hundred years of living at the North Pole with nights six
months long that they remain childless, you either don't know
Catholics or are unaware of the failure rate of the rhythm method.
There have therefore been over five generations of Clauses, breeding
like Catholics for over one hundred years. Since they are Catholic,
their exponential population increase would obviously have a gain
higher than the world population as a whole. There have therefore
been more than enough new Santas to overcome the population increase
of the world. So in fact, Santa has an easier time of it now than
he did when he first started out.
Santa dead, indeed--some people will twist any statistic to "prove"
their cynical theory.
Date: 06 Dec 95 02:52:01 EST
From: Anthony T. Field
Subject: The Farther Side
To: Anthony T. Field
Greetings!
Congratulations to those who have finished exams (that includes me too:-) and to those
who haven't, good luck! Just to keep you laughing, here's something that was sent to me
from a friend of a friend from Canada...
Enjoy!
Tony
THE HUMAN SEXUALITY TAX
WHAT IS THE HST?
The Human Sexuality Tax is a $1.25 surcharge levied on sexual relations
between consenting adults.
WHY A TAX ON SEX?
Because cigarettes and alcohol are already taxed to the hilt. Sex is the
only central pleasure we haven't touched yet.
HOW DO I PAY THE HST
After sexual relations, you and your partner are each required to fill out
a separate T69 Form and return it with a cheque or money order for $1.25 to
Revenue and Taxation Canada. The forms are available at Post Offices, drug
stores and in the washrooms of most bars and dance clubs.
WHAT IF I DON'T UH...GET THERE?
The tax only applies if you achieve climax. So relax, go to it, when you
want to do it.
WHAT IF I LIKE LITTLE BOYS?
The HST only applies to consenting adults. Pedophiles and necropeliacs are
not required to pay the tax. Zoopheliacs and gerbil enthusiasts are also
exempt.
WHAT ABOUT SAFE SEX?
Health and Welfare Canada advises the use of condoms to prevent sexually
transmitted diseases. If you use a condom, you are eligible for an HST
rebate equal to 40% of its cost. Retain the receipt and the used condom
and enclose both with your Federal Income Tax Return to receive the full
rebate.
I'M FROM QUEBEC, DO I PAY MORE?
No, in fact you pay less. The HST is regionally adjusted to account for
socio-cultural variation in the frequency of sexual relations. Persons
from Etobicoke, fo example, are required to pay an additional $.70 per
encounter to makeup for their lack of activity. Similarly, residents of
Gaspe Bay may deduct $.75 from their payment.
CANADA'S HST. LET'S COME TOGETHER.
Revenue and Taxation Canada
Date: 07 Dec 95 01:47:20 EST
From: Anthony T. Field
Subject: The Farther Side
To: Anthony T. Field
Greetings...
Since this is officially the night before Christmas break for me, here are 3 different
renditions of "'Twas the Night Before Christmas"
Enjoy!
Tony
A ST:TNG XMAS
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ship Not a
circuit was buzzing, not one microchip; The phasers were hung in
the armoury securely, In hopes that no aliens would get up that early.
The crewmen were nestled all snug in their bunks (Except for the few
who were partying drunks); And Picard in his nightshirt and Bev in
her lace, Had just settled down for a neat face-to-face...
When out in the halls there arose such a racket, That we leapt from
our beds, pulling on pant and jacket.
Away to the lifts we all shot like a gun,
Leapt into the cars and yelled loudly, "Deck One!" The bridge
Red-Alert lights, which flashed through the din, Gave a lustre of Hades
to objects within.
When, what, on the viewscreen, should our eyes behold, But a weird kind
of sleigh, and some guy who looked old.
But the glint in his eyes was so strange and askew That we knew in
a moment it had to be Q.
His sleigh grew much larger as closer he came.
Then he zapped on the bridge and addressed us by name: "It's Riker!
It's Data! It's Worf and Jean-Luc!
It's Geordi! And Wesley, the genetic fluke!
To the top of the bridge, to the top of the hall!
Now float away! Float away! Float away all!" As leaves in the autumn
are whisked off the street, So the floor of the bridge came away from
our feet, And up to the ceiling our bodies they flew,
As the captain called out, "What the hell is this, Q?!" The prankster
just laughed and expanded his grin, And, snapping his fingers, he
vanished again.
As we took in our plight and were looking around, The spell was
removed, and we crashed to the ground.
Then Q, dressed in fur from his head to his toe, Appeared once again,
to continue the show.
"That's enough!" cried the captain, "You'll stop this at once!" And
Riker said, Worf! Take aim at this dunce!" "I'm deeply offended,
Jean-Luc," replied Q,
"I just want to celebrate Christmas with you." As we scoffed at his
words, he produced a large sack.
He dumped out the contents and took a step back.
"I've brought gifts," he said, "just to show I'm sincere.
There's something delightful for everyone here." He sat on the floor
and dug into his pile,
And handed out gifts with his most charming smile: "For Counsellor
Troi, there's no need to explain.
Here's Tylenol-Beta for all of your pain.
For Worf I've some mints as his breath's not too great, And for
Geordi LaForge, an inflatable date.
For Wesley, some hormones, and Clearasil-Plus; For Data, a joke book;
for Riker, a truss.
For Beverly Crusher, there's sleek lingerie, Then he sprang to his
feet with that grin on his face And, clapping his hands, disappeared
into space.
But we heard him exclaim as he dwindled from sight, "Merry Christmas
to all, and to all a good flight!"
A Christmas poem
'Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck...
How to live in a world that's politically correct?
His workers no longer would answer to "Elves".
"Vertically Challenged" they were calling themselves.
And labor conditions at the north pole
Were alleged by the union to stifle the soul.
Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety,
Released to the wilds by the Humane Society.
And equal employment had made it quite clear
That Santa had better not use just reindeer.
So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid,
Were replaced with 4 pigs, and you know that looked stupid!
The runners had been removed from his sleigh;
The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.A.
And people had started to call for the cops
When they heard sled noises on their roof-tops.
Second-hand smoke from his pipe had his workers quite frightened.
His fur trimmed red suit was called "Unenlightened."
And to show you the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows,
Rudolf was suing over unauthorized use of his nose
And had gone on Geraldo, in front of the nation,
Demanding millions in over-due compensation.
So, half of the reindeer were gone; and his wife,
Who suddenly said she'd enough of this life,
Joined a self-help group, packed, and left in a whiz,
Demanding from now on her title was Ms.
And as for the gifts, why, he'd ne'er had a notion
That making a choice could cause so much commotion.
Nothing of leather, nothing of fur,
Which meant nothing for him. And nothing for her.
Nothing that might be construed to pollute.
Nothing to aim. Nothing to shoot.
Nothing that clamored or made lots of noise.
Nothing for just girls. Or just for the boys.
Nothing that claimed to be gender specific.
Nothing that's warlike or non-pacific.
No candy or sweets...they were bad for the tooth.
Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.
And fairy tales, while not yet forbidden,
Were like Ken and Barbie, better off hidden.
For they raised the hackles of those psychological
Who claimed the only good gift was one ecological.
No baseball, no football...someone could get hurt;
Besides, playing sports exposed kids to dirt.
Dolls were said to be sexist, and should be passe;
And Nintendo would rot your entire brain away.
So Santa just stood there, disheveled, perplexed;
He just could not figure out what to do next.
He tried to be merry, tried to be gay,
But you've got to be careful with that word today.
His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground;
Nothing fully acceptable was to be found.
Something special was needed, a gift that he might
Give to all without angering the left or the right.
A gift that would satisfy, with no indecision,
Each group of people, every religion;
Every ethnicity, every hue,
Everyone, everywhere...even you.
So here is that gift, it's price beyond worth...
"May you and your loved ones enjoy peace on earth."
**** 'Twas the Night Before Christmas ****
- Written by the Government
'Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period preceding the annual
Yuletide celebration, and throughout the place of residence, kinetic
activity was not in evidence among the possessors of this potential,
including that species of domestic rodent known as Mus musculus (mouse).
Hosiery was meticulously suspended from the forward edge of the wood
burning caloric apparatus, pursuant to our anticipatory pleasure
regarding an imminent visitation from an eccentric philanthropist among
whose folkloric appellations is the honorific title of St. Nicholas.
The prepubescent siblings, comfortably ensconced in their respective
accommodations of repose, were experiencing subconscious visual
hallucinations of variegated fruit confections moving rhythmically
through their cerebrums. My conjugal partner and I, attired in our
nocturnal head coverings, were about to take slumberous advantage of the
hibernal darkness when upon the avenaceous exterior portion of the
grounds there ascended such a cacophony of dissonance that I felt
compelled to arise with alacrity from my place of repose for the purpose
of ascertaining the precise source thereof.
Hastening to the casement, I forthwith opened the barriers sealing this
fenestration, noting thereupon that the lunar brilliance without,
reflected as it was on the surface of a recent crystalline
precipitation, might be said to rival that of the solar meridian itself
- thus permitting my incredulous optical sensory organs to behold a
miniature airborne runnered conveyance drawn by eight diminutive
specimens of the genus Rangifer, piloted by a minuscule, aged chauffeur
so ebullient and nimble that it became instantly apparent to me that he
was indeed our anticipated caller. With his ungulate motive power
traveling at what may possibly have been more vertiginous velocity than
patriotic alar predators, he vociferated loudly, expelled breath
musically through contracted labia, and addressed each of the octet by
his or her respective cognomen - "Now Dasher, now Dancer..." et al. -
guiding them to the uppermost exterior level of our abode, through which
structure I could readily distinguish the concatenations of each of the
32 cloven pedal extremities.
As I retracted my cranium from its erstwhile location, and was
performing a 180-degree pivot, our distinguished visitant achieved -
with utmost celerity and via a downward leap - entry by way of the smoke
passage. He was clad entirely in animal pelts soiled by the ebony
residue from oxidations of carboniferous fuels which had accumulated on
the walls thereof. His resemblance to a street vendor I attributed
largely to the plethora of assorted playthings which he bore dorsally in
a commodious cloth receptacle.
His orbs were scintillant with reflected luminosity, while his
submaxillary dermal indentations gave every evidence of engaging
amiability. The capillaries of his malar regions and nasal appurtenance
were engorged with blood which suffused the subcutaneous layers, the
former approximating the coloration of Albion's floral emblem, the
latter that of the Prunus avium, or sweet cherry. His amusing sub- and
supralabials resembled nothing so much as a common loop knot, and their
ambient hirsute facial adornment appeared like small, tabular and
columnar crystals of frozen water.
Clenched firmly between his incisors was a smoking piece whose grey
fumes, forming a tenuous ellipse about his occiput, were suggestive of a
decorative seasonal circlet of holly. His visage was wider than it was
high, and when he waxed audibly mirthful, his corpulent abdominal region
undulated in the manner of impectinated fruit syrup in a hemispherical
container. He was, in short, neither more nor less than an obese,
jocund, multigenarian gnome, the optical perception of whom rendered me
visibly frolicsome despite every effort to refrain from so being. By
rapidly lowering and then elevating one eyelid and rotating his head
slightly to one side, he indicated that trepidation on my part was
groundless.
Without utterance and with dispatch, he commenced filling the
aforementioned appended hosiery with various of the aforementioned
articles of merchandise extracted from his aforementioned previously
dorsally transported cloth receptacle. Upon completion of this task, he
executed an abrupt about-face, placed a single manual digit in lateral
juxtaposition to his olfactory organ, inclined his cranium forward in a
gesture of leave-taking, and forthwith effected his egress by
renegotiating (in reverse) the smoke passage. He then propelled himself
in a short vector onto his conveyance, directed a musical expulsion of
air through his contracted oral sphincter to the antlered quadrupeds of
burden, and proceeded to soar aloft in a movement hitherto observable
chiefly among the seed-bearing portions of a common weed. But I
overheard his parting exclamation, audible immediately prior to his
vehiculation beyond the limits of visibility: "Ecstatic Yuletide to the
planetary constituency, and to that self same assemblage, my sincerest
wishes for a salubriously beneficial and gratifyingly pleasurable period
between sunset and dawn."
Everyone's seen 'twas the night before finals so i left it out...:-)
have a great break/exam period/christmas everyone!
tony
Date: 07 Dec 95 08:39:48 EST
From: Anthony T. Field
Subject: The Farther Side
To: Anthony T. Field
Greetings...
This is the last Farther Side message for about 4 months. I'm going home to Tornto to
work and to teach skiing, and I'll be back in late March. I hope you all have a great winter!
If you have any friedns whom you think would like to be added to this list, just email me
their name. Likewise, if you want to be removed from the list, just write me. I will get
back to you in March.
Take care, and enjoy!
Tony
The Grinch Song
You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch
You really are a heel,
You're as cuddly as a cactus, you're as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch,
You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel!
You're a monster, Mr. Grinch,
Your heart's an empty hole,
Your brain is full of spiders, you have garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch,
I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole!
You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch,
You have termites in your smile,
You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch,
Given a choice between the two of you I'd take the seasick crocodile!
You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch,
You're the king of sinful sots,
You're a heart of dead tomato washed with moldy purple spots, Mr. Grinch,
You're a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce!
You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch,
With a nauseous super "naus"!,
You're a crooked dirty jockey and you drive a crooked hoss, Mr. Grinch,
Your soul is an appalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful
assortment of rubbish imaginable mangled up in tangled up knots!
You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch,
You're a nasty wasty skunk,
Your heart is full of unwashed socks, your soul is full of gunk, Mr. Grinch,
The three words that best describe you are, and I quote,
"Stink, stank, stunk"!