The Baby Jesus won’t make his appearance for another four days in New Zealand.
Meanwhile, we have done all the decking of halls that can be done.
Unless we get way more halls.
This “paparazzi blog” features Christmas stuff around the house, not actual peoples, who will come later. Boy, will they come.
Let the tour begin
The best Christmas treasures are the ones that Junior made when he was really little.
Like these, which are worth more than gold to me.
And this gift (below) to his “Mum”, which he slaved over for hours and hours, with the precision of a Mercedes Benz Engineer.
And this PhotoShopped Moosedeer (below), which Junior made two years ago, when I was sad, because Christmas without the 100-pound, antler-wearing, sausage-snorking, picture-of-happiness German Shepherd/Huntaway (a.k.a. Moosedawg) was just missing something.
So now Buddy photobombs our Christmas pics, which makes me smile. (The Missus not so much).
So much of our Christmas stuff was accumulated over years and years. Only the Lord knows from where.
Things like wreaths:
And toy soldiers…
And happy Santas.
And a creepy Santa nutcracker.
And Christmas animals (plus a token Superhero)…
And other wonderful Christmas sussies…
And Christmas goodies that are now being cooked, that smell SO GOOD, but which husbands MUST NOT eat just yet. (Slap. Ouch.)
And a soundtrack that will never, ever grow old.
And the all-time Christmas movie that’s about to be watched.
But first, there’s last-minute shopping to be done, so HogsAteMySister will sign off for now and wish you a very…
Christmas Bonus — last year’s Christmas blog on ALMOST not buying a Christmas tree.
I’ve have a couple of “Man Moments” lately.
You know, the ones that make the Missus roll her eyes way back in her head and think “what is WRONG with that man?”
The most recent Man Moment involved wood shards, Charles Barkley and Killer Horror Chemicals for spraying roof gunge.
But, honestly, the Wood Shard thing can’t really be called a Man Moment.
It was more of a macho life-saving public service kind of thing.
See, I was walking the Crack Puppy at the park late in the afternoon, and I saw the newly sawn stumps in the photo above with huge, savage shards.
Now, on any given afternoon, this park has about a million kids and dogs running wild.
Some brain surgeon with the Parks Department called it a day after wrapping the stumps with DANGER tape. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
But I could just see some kid playing on the stumps and impaling himself. Because that is exactly what I would have done as a kid.
I tried to kick the wooden shards down, but my tennis shoes weren’t up to the job. So I did what any guy in my position would do.
I hammered the crap out of the shards with my artificial arm until they broke.
I’m waiting for the Missus, so I thought I might as well do something productive like, oh, I don’t know, read War and Peace, or possibly rebuild Rome.
There is NO REASON TO PANIC even though, by my clock, which works, as opposed to the one in the kitchen that is always 20 minutes late, we have approximately 67 minutes to buy a bottle of wine, get across town during Friday afternoon rush hour, and then listen to the Missus’ sisters complain when we arrived late for the 900,000th time.
You would think that after 30 years of waiting for the Missus, I would get better at it. That I would accept that some things in life are inevitable, like death and taxes and being late.
But you would be wrong.
There are two kinds of people in the world.
There are people like me, who say the only good snake is a dead snake; one that has been repeatedly shot or chopped-up with a shovel, bitten by the dog, dropped into the burn barrel with long tongs, and then covered with diesel and “insnakerated.
And then there are the insane people who compete in the annual Rattlesnake Roundup in Sweetwater, Tx. Inbred people who want to be up close and personal with rattlesnakes. People who intentionally seek rattlesnakes out, catch them and even, Lord have mercy, get in a pit with thousands of them.
In case you missed the nuance, the people in the second group are out of their slither-friggen minds.
They desperately need to spend a few days in Eastern Oklahoma with my sister, my brother-in-law, and Katy, to learn their tried-and-true system for “How To Deal With Snakes.”
I have written before about Katy, below, who I nominated for Official State Dog of Oklahoma.
Katy is a snake-finding machine. She races around the farm, “sweeping” the area with her super-delicate nose. When she smells an evil, despicable, heinous snake, she emits the unmistakable “Official Snake Bark”.
Alerted to the presence of a snake, my brother-in-law, armed with either a 12-gauge or a long-handled shovel, then proceeds to de-snakify the rattlesnake, copperhead or whatever, as in Exhibit A, above. This snake is way dead, thanks to a stove-in head. Yet Katy remains vigilant until the snake is tossed into the burn barrel. Good dog, Katy!
Rattlesnakes R Us
Although I have always been snake averse, I decided to take my new Chinese bride to attend the Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup back in about 1986. (Who says romance is dead? Not this blog).
It was pretty damn cool.
I was a reporter on the University of Texas at Arlington student newspaper.
And the Secret Service wanted me, sort of.
I had to be credentialed if I wanted to be in the press briefing later that year when President Reagan flew into DFW Airport.
Even though no one in our typically pinko newsroom was a Reagan supporter, the fact that the Secret Service was checking us out was sort of cool.
It was a pretty straight-forward process for everyone but me. As I recall, the Junior G-man had to call Washington to decide what to do with my application. It called for 10 fingerprints, but I could only offer five. He improvised.
Two legendary brothers were U.S. Deputy Marshals when I was a reporter in Waco. To put that in perspective, in the law enforcement community, they were just below God in their standing and power.
Scattershooting At The Mall, Wondering Whatever Happened to Grover Scomer, and Feeling the Need to Point Out…
How can you talk to young people about ‘Scattershooting’ when they have no idea who Blackie Sherrod was?
Now that we have all seen Kim Kardashian’s entire buttooskies, Ebola is just not that scary.
Not many people can say they have personally shaken hands with Ronald McDonald and Peter Andre, on the same day.
I wish I had a dollar for every time I said I wish I had a dollar for every time…
If you used to have a mind like a steel trap, it’s hard to accept that your steel trap is now a) rusty and b) what were we talking about?
I never enjoyed playing golf because I could never get good at it. But I sure miss the laughs. I thought about that after reading a classic Sports Illustrated piece by Dan Jenkins.
Even if the day pretty much sucks, when the Crack Puppy smiles and licks you right on the nose, your burdens instantly get much lighter.
Nowadays, as I drive my Honda, I expect, at any moment, for an 18-wheeler to crash into me going about 100 mph. I’m not sure whether this is because I’ve been watching way too many Bruce Willis movies or that I may angel is trying to get my attention.
Speaking of Bruce Willis, I admit wanting to be him so just once I could say, “Yippee ki yay MF”, before blowing the crap out of all the bad guys.
Yesterday was *Guy Fawkes Day, which they celebrate in New Zealand by shooting off fireworks.
It sounded like we were under fire from both flanks. It was so intense that the Crack Puppy, never bothered by kabooms in the past, was a basket case.
I was torn.
One one hand, I wanted to scream out the window “Get off my lawn,” or something equally Geezer-like.
On the other hand, I wanted to join in and blow up **ant beds .