Christmas Is Here? Right Here?

Oh my gosh, I think I may have a Christmas induced heart attack; quickly someone grab the candy cane defibrillators and throw me on a snowflake stretcher–call my Uncle Rudolph, tell him I always hated that glaring nose of his; and, and—

Is he dead?

Nope. Alive and kicking, all thanks to you random emergency personnel! You got a name tag? I think I want to mail you a Christmas present: how do socks sound for a guy like you? You look like a sock guy. A Hanes guy–let me pen that on a sticky note.

Well, that was fun. But it was not nearly as fun as getting all my presents this morning. Let’s see, a couple of vinyl records–oh, do I hear cheers of joy?–some books of short stories–quite a catch–and a-a Nirvana t-shirt?

Holy Coal Elves! Nirvana! I love those guys!

Raise your hands, everyone–Nirvana fans? Eh? I got one…two…and there’s three.

You guys are great. I have to send you all fruitcakes now, you know; it’s a tradition with me. That said: I hope everyone loves fruitcake as much as I do; if not, then you’ll have to settle with these chocolate chip cookies I baked this morning. Tough choice…

Okay, now, open mic session. I want at least three of you to come up here and tell us what you found under the Christmas tree this morning–speak loud and proud; and let Santa Claus hear those festive words come spewing out of your gingerbread encrusted mouths.

Disregard that image, please, disregard it. I am in a ditzy mood today, what with all these sugary confections–love that word–to stuff inside my stomach, which; as a matter of fact, is also celebrating Christmas…well, as long as the lights aren’t eaten by the acid.

Anyone care to start? Oh, note this, if any of you are here for the Alcoholics Anonymous Meeting, it’s in the other auditorium. Yeah. I wanted to let you know…in case things started getting strange when we were talking about reindeer night clubs–and some of those can get seriously steamy; it’s a wonder the North Pole hasn’t melted yet.

I suppose I could begin–take the microphone here…brought a list of the stuff I got…

From the top: a one super radical Nirvana record; a one equally super radical Rolling Stones record; a one okay radical Van Halen record; a one okay radical–

Is no one else bored? I certainly am. Hell, originally, I was gonna sip some egg nog and watch Christmas Vacation; but apparently I had somewhere to be tonight. Understand, I was totally going to invite you guys, honest truth. I didn’t even write a speech.

Oh, you have notecards? No thanks. I-I’ll pass for now; but later…keep ’em in reach.

So…Christmas…fun times. I see some of you wore your sweaters; Snoopy, a badass as usual; and Santa– wait, is that a picture of him…no! Put that away! We have children here! Go on with your nasty self. Wearing a sweater of Santa riding a Harley Davidson; what is happening to the world these days?

Well, I think I might lie down, got a tummy of gingerbread and ham and soon to be fruitcake. You can let yourselves out. The doors were locked; but I decided that was too Die Hard…have to be original around here.

Happy New Year–and…what is it? Oh. Merry Egg Nog Drinking!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

The Cold Weather Blues

Got my guitar all strapped up? Good. And it’s tuned? Even better. It feels incredible to hold–the wood and the strings and the bunch of other guitar terms I don’t know because I don’t play it that often.

Is the microphone working? Hello? Anyone hear me?

I suppose you can all hear me fine because none of you are giving signs; mostly you’re drinking your wine and your beers and eating whatever the hell they served for dinner tonight. Is it tuna? Cod? Cod. Oh, yuck; they have worse taste here than they did two years ago when they served spam patties.

To not bother you with my horrible jokes tonight–what’s punch without the punch line, eh?–I am going to leave it to my favorite pianist, Blind Henry, to entertain you with his musical genius while I serenade you with words and ideas. Sound okay?

What’s that you’re saying, Blind Henry? Ha! He wants to play Clair de Lune! He says he played it all through his school years–how he got the name Grand Pianist. Well, pal, I was thinking something along the lines of White Christmas; but if you feel that song tonight, then play on. Boy, I love this guy; he’s been with me since childhood.

All right, I got my drink here and a bowl of, what is it, nachos, super cheesy nachos; and I am ready to start this event with a bang. And thank you, Blind Henry, for that well-placed crescendo; a real genius the guy is.

Okay, if I got my guitar strummed–ooh, hear that? horrible tuning on my part. Hang on…and…I got it; I have it. Look at all you now: you’re nothing but chuckleheads! Do I have to play or is my screwup enough laughing gas to sustain you for two hours?


Well, we are all gathered here tonight because one–your car broke down and you had nowhere else to go but the night bar on the side of the street; or two, you actually came here to listen to a mediocre singer belt his lungs out and hopefully do an average job on your favorite Christmas songs. Either way you get free beer.

I hope–I sincerely hope the lot of you are here for the latter; and if you happen to be I wish you a Merry Christmas because this tune might make you wish Scrooge came back from the dead and shot me with a candy cane rifle.

I thought it up one afternoon, just sitting and sunbathing on the lawn; it’s a doozy.

Blind Henry, my man, you ready? He’s giving the thumbs-up; I think we are good to go, folks. Please excuse my crappy guitar skills–they are a thirteen year work in progress.

This is from my new album: Christmas Bells and Elf Hairdos.  It’s something I like to call, The Cold Weather Blues.

Early morning, just out of bed

Got my coffee boiling, kids decorating…dread 

Outside the car is spoiling, at least it’s not wrecked

I died a little last Christmas when you did not appear

Sunshine, happy holidays, the daylight time is here

I died a little last Christmas when you did not appear

Sunshine, happy holidays, I should have had no fear

Real time scorning, I only tapped his head

Gave them a warning, should have toasted pastries instead 

I died a little last Christmas when you did not appear

Sunshine, happy holidays, the daylight time is here

I died a little last Christmas when you did not appear

Sunshine, happy holidays, I should have had no fear

Tuning out their whining,  please somebody get them a sled 

Work is calling, can’t they tell I’m overstressed? 

Next time caroling–throw the books away, Santa Claus is dead

I died a little last Christmas when you did not appear

Sunshine, happy holidays, the daylight time is here

I died a little Christmas when you did not appear

Sunshine, happy holidays, I should have no fear

Sunshine, happy holidays

Sunshine, happy holidays

Sunshine, happy holidays, I should have had no fear

Hope you liked it, guys. Took me hours on end.

And now, Blind Henry, is going to take you on a trip to A Winter Wonderland. 

Think daily, 

A Southpaw


That Asshole Krampus

Everyone loves Santa Claus–you know? That should be the next Everyone Loves Raymond; can we get someone on that? Production team? Anyone? I can cast Rino Romano as an angry elf…


Right. Back to work now.

Everyone loves Santa Claus.

Everyone loves Rudolph.

Everyone loves Frosty.

But everyone hates that asshole Krampus.

Seriously. In the lore of Yuletide it is written down: and so forth that asshole Krampus crashed our kicking crib with all his whip and chain shit…he totally killed the radical Daddy Claus vibe we had going on… It drags on for a bit: when those Yule folks had something to say they said it; you should see this book, it’s 1000 pages of Christmas rap songs and Yuletide bash songs.

But we are not here to waste time. Krampus wastes time. He’s an asshole.

The guy whips naughty kids. What, did the lists not work for him? He draws up these mountainous scrolls of names as he sits at his throne and eats the limbs of bad children; but does he actually read them? Does he go through and say: “Here’s a no good brat. There’s another. What to do? I know! I’ll whip ’em all and stuff coal in their shoes.”

Psychologists, pay attention. That is the mind of a deranged goat monster.

And does Santa Claus–the father of joy and bellies stuffed with chocolate chip cookies– operate against Krampus? I don’t think so. He stays at the North Pole with his elves and his  reindeers and his wives–excuse me, wife; I was still reading about Daddy Claus in the lore–and, guess what, he checks his lists twice and goes to bed.

Mindset of Santa Claus: Oh…so many unpleasant children this year. There’s Little Timmy Peterson–the little tike peed in the school parking lot on the…ah, the principal’s car; and Susie Geraldine tied her sister’s hair in a ceiling fan. Well. Pity. I suppose Krampus is going to whip them all. I could call and argue him out of it; but…right now I think I would prefer to fall asleep and dream up Christmas rap lyrics–MTV did promise me that music video…

Yeah; gee, you’re a real fun guy, Santa. All that warm milk is going to your fat head.

But, hey, he’s better than Krampus; although in recent years the horned demon has gotten the better end of the Hollywood treatment…while Santa has to cope with Bad Santa and that Tim Allen trilogy.

What to take away from this?

Krampus may be that asshole and it may suck when he whips all those naughty children; but, during this festive holiday season, we all should try to remember the most important lesson of the Christmas tradition:

Being a snot nosed brat will only ever get you coal…and a super sore butt.

Think daily,

A Southpaw 






Silverish Bells–It’s Christmastime?

All right, people, let’s get it out of the way–Santa Claus. You believe in the tubby man wholeheartedly, or, say, you happen to be descended from Ebenezer Scrooge, you think Santa can shove his cookie gobbling ass down the chimney; yet some of you do not have chimneys…

No smoking out the intruder this year. Put away those marshmallows.

This year, unlike other years–not calling out 2010 or anything; I mean, the milk was untouched when I woke up in the morning and the carrots were…moldy, not sure how that happens in nine hours either–Santa Claus will be believed.

Yes, throw away those horrid conspiracy pamphlets written by the same people who believe the moon landing was directed by Stanley Kubrick, as well the shameful Christmas horror movies–for kicks toss in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, the one with Jim Carrey; it is for the best.

Open the box, go on, you know which box, you sly dog; it’s the one containing the cookie plate and the milk mug. Why? You think Santa won’t want an appetizer in New York before he flies to Hong Kong–this ain’t the Red Eye, folks; this be Sleigh Express, taking American Airlines out of business since the dawn of time.

And the presents–

Whoah! Don’t show them! It’s like you’re flashing around a pair of dirty underpants: no wants to see them until Christmas, in this case, Christmas dinner, and it ruins the season for all who gaze upon them. Yuck. Skid marks. Quit rubbing chocolate bars on the underpants!

There. Set them down easy underneath the tree–on second thought, tie up your dog before he pisses on the wrapping. Okay…all is in place, and all is hidden; save for the bicycle.

After setting out decorations the best thing to do is counsel your children…if you have children. Please don’t go steal a Tiny Tim from off a doorstep so someone can eat your fruitcake.

Tell them:

Santa Claus is…

Oh, I almost forgot the best part–the Christmas carols! Personally I can do a little ditty on Silent Night; but, see, that was when I was eleven years old…hard to sing in heavenly peace at seventeen. What you want to do is–

Not sing any Christmas carols whatsoever.

Hello?  Who is this?

I am the Santa Advisor. 

The Santa Advi–I thought the elves gave Santa advice?

I do not give Santa Claus advice, you fruitcake. It is rather to the families in doubt.

Doubt about…

Whether or not Santa Claus is real. I advise a certain answer for each family. 

You can’t do that. A family should decide on their belief of Santa themselves.

Not according to the rulebook…

Rulebook, schmulebook! Santa Claus is an individual opinion for everyone!

Santa Claus is a definite figure in the world and no one can–

Enough! Get out of my studio!

What studio? This is a broom closet. I see a mop and bucket for the janitor. 

Then get out of my closet! And take your elitist Santa views with you!

Bah, humbug.

Is he gone? Thank Rudolph…Oh, man, he totally spilled my soap bucket! Hang on, have to rip out some paper towels and sop this up. Doo doo do. And it is–Oh. The soap is leaking through the paper towels. Right.

At least it’s Christmastime.

Think daily,

A Southpaw





Christmas–Bring On The Songs!

Halloween is right around the tombstone! See what I did there? The thing with the corner…and I said tombstone…Why don’t you laugh, people? You’re not supposed to be grim for another week. You keep it up, and I may not pass out candy this year…

That’s right. Laugh your ass off.

With Halloween coming so quickly; however it brings to mind the remaining holidays: the Stepchild and the Movie Star, otherwise known as Thanksgiving and Christmas, specifically Christmas Morning. Before you know it you will have gobbled the turkey and demolished the presents–in that order; and then it is on to the New Year and boring holidays, with the exception of Easter and St. Patrick.

So to lengthen the stay of Christmas–who honestly cares about Thanksgiving?–and its wallet eating tendencies I have prepared a song for all of you to hum in your head while you decorate your trees and unwrap your presents. It could be addicting and will likely end up on the Billboard Top Ten within the next, give or take, four days.

Prepare yourself for…

Shopping Hell— sung to the tune of Jingle Bells:

Shopping Hell, shopping hell!

Curse this holiday!

Oh, the pain of bringing children to the mall to play-ay!

Shopping Hell, shopping hell!

Egg nog, please, I’ll pay!

My migraine is starting and I still have pies to ba-aaake!

Check it out in the papers–it’ll be an instant hit.

And never stop humming.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Halloween Versus Christmas–The Terrifying Truth…[Insert Scream Here]

Can we get a picture of Jack Skellington and Santa Claus duking it out under a mistletoe? Never mind, forget the mistletoe–no one can look at that and think violence–and instead go skull crazy. I am talking six foot skeletons holding giant Grim Reaper scythes…and those creepy cow skulls you see in almost every Western horror movie; it is as if the director is whispering “Beware the cows…” into the set designer’s headset.

But to talk about the picture: give Santa some beefy arms and a biker mustache, stick him in a spandex suit with a belt of candy canes; opposite him put Skellington on a fire breathing motorcycle that hums the theme from Halloween in a never-ending loop–

We have to wait on the picture?

Fine–I suppose I can them entertained until then.

Is he gone? Good. What a piece of black licorice….

You are obviously wondering the purpose of this artful picture–not to give myself credit or anything. As a matter of fact it is the essential image of the war waged between Halloween and Christmas since the dawn of the Tootsie Roll and the stocking stuffers.

Marketing–that selfish fruitcake!

Pardon my French, ladies.

To illustrate this further I see I need to educate you on your role as a consumer in these colossal money suckers. For both Halloween and Christmas there is this feeling; and this feeling–in laymen terms we call it anxiety–pushes you, the tradition following citizen, to leave the safety of your home and venture out to the treacherous soul stealing–in laymen terms we call it your wallet–pit known as Wal Mart to purchase either latex masks and candy bags, or aluminum trees and freaky elves you like to see staring at you from the shelf…

In short: the repetitive ankle twisters of the holiday season.

Imagine a man breaks into your house; and while you are stuffing shells into your shotgun–it was an early Christmas present–he rushes up to you and twists your wrist so far you wish it did snap. He tells you the only way he is letting go is if you buy him a roll of present wrapping and a gingerbread house kit. This man is Twister Tommy–the bastardized version of your favorite holidays; and he lives on Consumerism Avenue.

Do the right thing–eliminate the Twister Tommy who intrudes on your season. This has been a Public Service Announcement from the Bureau of Protecting the Values of Holiday Fun Times.

Is that picture ready yet?

Think daily,

A Southpaw