Ghost of Christmas Presents

Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthday to You,

Happy Birthday Baby Jesus,

Happy Birthday to You.

Well by now, you and yours, except for you unfortunate slobs working retail or in Nursing Homes, have opened up all the presents under the tree, and are fixing to have extended families over for a meal or maybe some Pumkin Pie, or what-not. The same applies here at the Bigfoot household. The kids are snuggled on the couch with their new copy of "Never ending Story", Wife is up having a quick nap before preparing some Brownies, and I, after hanging-up and assembling some new presents, just put a second pot of Joe on. Life is good. Or as good as it can be for an old Sufferin' Bastard like me.

A thought has just occured to me that warmed my heart: as you watch your loved ones open up your hard-sought, 'just right' gifts, hoping to gather those much coveted 'under the tree ' points, just remember my old Italian Grandmother Nanny Rosa. See, when I was liitle, I was kind of an active child. In these days they would call me ADHD and prescribed me with meds. But alas Mom to her credit, chose instead to let me 'burn off' all that extra energy . Consequentially, if left to my own devises, I would get into all manner of mischief, up to and including plugging up the bathtub and overflowing it, and sticking my finger into a live light socket. Anyway, so my old Nanny thought a nice safe present for me would be these soft squishy sponge animals. They were shaped like little bunnies and kittens and complety soft and harmless. In theory. So before long, according to the story, I ripped up the sponge animals into little marble sized pieces and stuffed them up my nose. Stuffed them so far up my nose, in fact, that they completely filled my sinuses. Nobody noticed the missing sponges until a week or so later when the bacteria from the nasty infection I had grown created a marvelous new smell, not unlike dead fish, I was told. Anyway, to make a long story less long, I had to go to the Hospital to have them removed by a doctor, ensuing an additional stench so powerful, that the operating room nurse nearly fainted, I was told.

So remember, when you worry about your present being a winner, know this: you can't win. Just ask my old Grandmother, God should rest her Soul. You can't win, but, if you're thinking of a 'better late than never' present for me, Beer is pretty much a sure thing.

Pax Maximus,

BFC