Letter to Santa, PLEASE watch the carpet

23 12 2009

Guest post from Comedian and former Diplomat Greg Brainos


Dear Santa,

I just wanted to make you aware that, for the seventh year in a row, the key to our house will be under the front door’s welcome mat, so it will be unnecessary for you to keep entering our residence via chimney.  It’s certainly an impressive feat, but you have nothing left to prove to us.  Especially when the result of that accomplishment is you mashing soot all over the beige carpet.  I beg of you, just use the spare key.  It’s not traditional, I know, but tradition ends where my new carpet begins.

Also, please stop bringing my children puppies for Christmas.  They’re allergic, so when we take the puppies to the animal shelter, I can’t tell if my kids are crying as a result of an allergic reaction or because their tiny hearts have been shattered into even tinier pieces.

Once you are finished placing presents underneath the tree, feel free to sit at the kitchen table and enjoy a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.  Should you eat all the cookies, please do not start rummaging through our cupboards; it’s noisy and rude.  I’m sure the next house will be gracious enough to provide some form of sustenance.

Lastly, you should not, under ANY circumstances, use our bathroom facilities.  Not for number one, not for number two, and especially not to “release some tension.”

Respectfully yours,

Anne Marie Hollingsworth


A Very Southern Christmas

1 12 2008

So what makes a Southern Christmas?

What does “Southern Christmas” mean? Does it mean gifts on Layaway? Does it mean life-size Baby Jesus replicas and “NO ROOM at the MOTEL 6” for the poor guys offering Frankincense and Myrrh? Does it mean another year of your parents tricking you into polishing off a gallon-size plastic bag of homemade black-pepper jerky over a long weekend, jerky which they later admit was VENISON, that’s right, Deer Meat. deerurineIt has nothing to do with Bambi. I could care less about Bambi – I just don’t like the idea of eating something someone caught after watching the “crack of dawn” every day of hunting season up in a tree stand covered in DEER URINE.

But I digress.

I like the idea of Southern Christmas smells, like burnt fuses, a woodstove, and a potential for house fires. Mix that with a Ham in the oven that you got from work and the overwhelming aroma from Mother’s apple pie (and by “Mother’s apple pie” I mean the shit brown wax encased in glass from Yankee Candle at the Mall, not an ACTUAL apple pie, which isn’t necessarily horrible. Her pies are not* consistently… edible).

But I digest.

* the part about inedible cooking was not exactly true. My Mom didn’t really make pies. She did make cakes, and those were always delicious. And Baked Ziti. Southern Italy, Anybody? But the DEER JERKY, fuck that Christmas.

But seriously, I can’t wait for the Holiday Season.

So many trips. So many comedy sets. So much.

– Mister Zach Ward

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