Letters From Santa

 

 

Jake,

I don’t know what it means to give you “experiences” over “things.” Enjoy the football. 

Regards,

Kris Kringle

 

Donna,

Sorry, but I can’t just make you an influencer. I can however include a bottle of my limited-edition spirit, Santa’s Frozen Whiskey. Naturally cold so you never need to order on the rocks. Click on the QR code to learn more about the distilling process. You’re over 21, right? 

Talk soon,

KK

 

Mark,

Unfortunately, international laws against human trafficking prohibit me from gifting you an actual elf. In any case, he wouldn’t even arrive in time. However, I can have one of my trusted advisors call you on FaceTime X-mas eve. Next best thing, I believe.

Merry Christmas,

Santa

 

Jon,

Yes, of course I’ve eaten reindeer before. 

Bon appetit,

 “Chef” Claus

 

Cora,

I started dying my beard in my early thirties. 

Thanks,

SC

 

Thad,

If I’m going to send you Bitcoin, I need an account number.

Best,

Sa. Cl.

 

Benji,

It doesn’t make you an “evil capitalist pig” to want a few toys for Christmas. 

thx,

Satan Claus

 

Catherine

I’ll tell Rudolph you said hi. And Mrs. Claus's first name is actually "Missus."

Sincerely,

Mister Claus

Barry,

My family anglicized “Kringle” sometime around the turn of the twentieth century, from the Russian Kringlekov. 

Obediently yours,

Yakov Kringlekov

 

Dear Plagiary

 

I’m not a crook. And now it is time to make the real promises of democracy. We have had our failures, but so have others, even if they do not admit them. And they may be less public. But in a larger sense, I cannot dedicate, I cannot consecrate, I cannot hallow this ground. I do not plan in any way to whitewash my sin. I do not call it a mistake, a mendacity; I call it sin. It is important to me that everybody who has been hurt know that the sorrow I feel is genuine. First and most important, my family; also my friends, my staff, my cabinet, Monica Lewinsky and her family, and the American people. I have asked all for their forgiveness.

 

In closing, I’d like to end of my own original quote, “It’s not a lie if you believe it.”

 

And, last but not least, thank you for letting me be myself, again. 

 

Do Your Part

 

It can be a great struggle to make sense of this topsy-turvy world. Thankfully, I’ve catalogued a helpful list of small things anyone can do to make a difference. While the following may feel insignificant, ineffectual, and utterly pointless, don’t let logic get in the way of a subtle act of protest. Incredibly, it usually involves dining. 

 

When ordering a Reuben sandwich, hold the Russian dressing out of solidarity with the people of Ukraine.

 

What the people of Gaza need is for you to abstain from grabbing Israeli salad during your lunch break.

English muffins usually raise colonial concerns, much in the same way a traditional Irish breakfast alludes to balaclava wearing thugs setting up illegal roadblocks. 

 

German potato salad recalls a more troubling time for the world. 

 

Chili, though spelled differently, for both the blind and the illiterate (two growing constituencies), it connotes images of Pinochet’s authoritarian regime. 

 

This may not seem like much, but words matter. Especially when they’re on food-stained menus. 

Up In Smoke

 

I tend not to subscribe to conspiracy theories, unless there’s a simple way to avoid auto renewal. A year is about all I can take subjecting myself to a daily barrage of fever dreams and wacky beliefs. 

But there is one I am gradually moving towards. It’s that the best way to clean up political corruption is to outlaw cigarettes. Think of how many important decisions have been made by shadowy figures inside smoke filled rooms. The smoke obscures their identity and gives them literal cover from watering eyes. Smoking is part of any good cabal, which makes removing it risky to the natural order of things. 

Vaping, while marginally healthier, does not provide these backroom bureaucrats enough plausible smoke to hide. Where are the shadows that figure into their grand plans? They might smell like a scented candle, but the little light on the end is a homing beacon for all to see. 

Whoever chooses the next president will have to do it from somewhere other than a vape filled room. There’s something strangely comforting about the fate of the world being left to dark overlords with yellow fingernails and cigarette breath. Makes them seem vaguely human. 

Just Floating an Idea

 

 

The older I get, the more I seem to have come to an appreciation for really great marketing ideas. It’s probably because I’ve had more than my fair share. What can be really difficult is separating the wheat from the chaff, or good ideas from great ideas. Some people use white boards or index cards, or keep everything stored up inside screaming to come out. 

 

However, my time-honored technique dates back centuries. Though, it’s original purpose was not to benefit advertising, the principles are very much the same. 

 

Back in the olden days, say pre-Internet sometime, when someone was first accused of practicing witchcraft without a license, it was understood that such an allegation could not go uninvestigated. What you’d do is tie them up and toss them into a body of water, watching whether they sink or float. If they float, they’re a witch. If they sink, they’re dead, but not a witch. Clear consciences all around. 

 

Besides being a good way to determine supernatural abilities, it was also quite entertaining. Which is precisely why I’ve updated it to fit the complicated world of modern advertising. When I come across a potentially great idea, there is only one thing to do. Write the idea down on a piece of paper and tie it to the chest of the person staking their career and reputation on it. Then tossing them into the Hudson River, a temperamental tidal estuary only a few blocks from my office. First of all, it’s convenient. Secondly, when floating an idea out there, it’s important to actually float it. 

What this does is prevent people from engaging in freewheeling spit balling, where “everything is on the table.” Knowing that they might have to fend off large container ships in the middle of the New York harbor would make even the most careless creative director think twice.

Scameo

 

Why hello there. Or should I say bonjour? You're in Paris, right? I'm not in Paris. But I am a fading, middling celebrity devoid of shame and self-awareness. I’ll gladly debase myself in the hopes of getting your approval and hard-earned cash. I’ll say anything you want me to say. Because I don’t believe in humiliation when money is involved. I will joke about past, present and possibly future scandals. I will employ my famous catchphrase either seriously or ironically, depending on what you’d like. I will wish a happy birthday to a pet iguana. And I’ll prepare for each video call by reading your request on the spot. Ready? You gotta pay up front, I don’t do anything on spec. Especially now that I've given up on the arts.  

A fat cat on fat cats

All day, every day, (the parts I’m awake), I’m fielding requests to comment on politics. Journalists want me to give a few soundbites on the state of congress. I used to be flattered, move that someone wanted to listen to my opinion on a subject besides kitty litter. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had to explain the dangers the average toilet seat poses to your typical house cat.

I said I was flattered, because I quickly figured out that it was nothing more than a crude joke. What they wanted was a fat cat to talk on fat cats. These pols have done something I’ve never dreamed of – gone a day without washing themselves. I’ve never seen a dime from a Senator, congressional page, or the damn gardener. 

Presidents talk about their pet dogs. Turkeys on pardoned on Thanksgiving. Donkeys and elephants get decent press every election cycle. The truth is that “fat cat” as a term is a deeply hurtful slur. I don’t mind being fat or a cat, what I mind is being lumped in with the barely coherent husks shuffling through the capitol building. I don’t like being associated – even in passing – with the craven lobbyists and cynical operators chugging martinis in Dupont Circle.

Time’s have changed. Many phrases that were once acceptable are no longer kosher. Why not fat cat? I guess because we don’t have a constituency. Who am I kidding? I don’t care. In the end, I know I’m better than them. A cat’s greatest asset is his sense of superiority. Not that it’s particularly hard when compared to Washington doofuses. 

My Writer's Block

I’m a wordsmith. People I know, trust, and owe a great deal of money often ask me, “what’s a wordsmith?” That and, “is it the same thing as a writer?” A wordsmith is something far different. Writers write while wordsmiths smith words. 

They ask, “smithing words, what’s that? Sounds expensive.” It can be, which is why I rely on the generosity and financial liquidity of close friends and strangers. I would never lend someone I didn’t trust money. But I would receive money from more or less anyone. Back to smithing. The first thing you’ll need is anvil and a very large hammer. Writing a sentence is not something you can do in a vacuum, unless it’s big enough to fit your laptop, notebook, power cord, plus the aforementioned anvil and hammer. 

I have been known to pound the spine of a dictionary until I discover the perfect word. Not sure how many times you've tried reading the thing. I can tell you from experience, it doesn't work. Like a smithing, it involves heating, cooling, dirty goggles and a flame-retardant apron. Yes, of course I have the calluses to prove it. 

Construction workers and laborers rightfully accuse many writers of being dainty, sheltered souls. Not me though. Especially with the forging I do between a testy preposition and a run-on sentence. I work with my hands, much like a sanitation worker or licensed masseuse. And like both, I help people, despite frequently smelling like garbage. 

The harsh pounding required to smith a word can go on for hours, sometimes days. It’s why I don’t ever get writer’s block, though I do own several writers’ blocks. The anvils, remember them? Perfect inspiration or sharpening a scimitar. You never know which one you'll need first. 

Oil Man

 

I have been working hard to rebrand myself as an “oil man.” The problem is that most people have outlandish notions about what an “oil man” should look and act like. They ask where my Stetson is and wonder if I wear cowboy boots on the subway. They scoff at my decided lack of twang. I can’t seem to get past the idea that to be an oil man is to be a strutting goober in a bolo tie.

I want to take this opportunity to change all that. Allow me to humbly introduce an alternate and much-needed definition of “oil man” into the lexicon. 

After switching from fries as a dining default, I found myself confronted with another dilemma. What happens when you say, “yes, I have a salad.” If only the choices ended there. Not so. Immediately you’re hit with a sonic barrage: Russian, ranch, blue cheese, vinaigrette, creamy Italian and on and on. Like a stale crouton, many crack under the pressure. This should be a simple transaction. I want a salad. Condiments are for other dishes, not ones this green and lustrous. 

I preface the confrontation with, “I’m an oil man. Extra virgin, not Texan.” That usually takes a few seconds to register before they nod and return with a small bottle. Because dressing is for wild game, not salads.  

Scientists Still Unable to Explain Andy Borowitz’s Career

 

SWITZERLAND

In an undisclosed location outside of Bern, a team of the brightest minds came to a conclusion, which many experts had been expecting for some time now; that the comedy career of Andy Borowitz defies simple logic and basic scientific principles. The team had searched for decades trying to ascertain what explained the writer’s inexplicable appeal. Their hard work yielded little in the way of clear answers. 

However, the research was not without its minor discoveries. One breakthrough a few years ago focused on Borowitz’s ability to push the boundaries of humor. Not in the sense of edginess or irreverence, but by expanding the definition of comedy itself. He was able to take jokes to a place where few were able to see it as a joke. This transformative style of satire is unequaled, except for perhaps a straight reading of the phone book. Then there was his platform. The team experimented by replacing the famous New Yorker typeface with a sans-serif font like “Calibri” to see if it had the same impact. It didn’t. Though it did seem to cure insomnia in a majority of participants. 

The team hit many dead ends when it discovered that many of his columns were indistinguishable from news columns and blogs. He found a professional goldilocks zone – not too smart, not too funny, and never too long. How he did that exactly? They never found out.

A constant source of frustration was the dearth of volunteers. As the years went on, it can be harder and harder to entice people to devote an hour or two to analyzing The Borowitz Report. One possible answer can be found in the first syllable of his last name. In a sense, humor requires only a furrowed brow or a slight smile. Laughing isn't necessary. 

Plenty of life’s biggest questions remain mysterious and unknowable. Because when you aren’t in on the joke, there’s a good chance you are the joke.

Hall without Oates

Dynamic duos have long been a part of civilization. Too bad it’s such a rocky relationship when the two people can’t work out their differences. Sometimes, they start as running buddies and end up in court – or worse. So no one should be surprised that these two singers finally decided to grab separate microphones. Since this is a tale as old as time.

Long before Simon left Garfunkel, there was another singing couple with a big future and enough mutual animus and jealousy to last several millennia. You have to go back to biblical times, and given that it’s the holiday season, it seems fitting to do so.

Lots of people know how the story of Cain and Abel ended, but very few know how it started. It began in coffeehouses just outside of Eden, since you couldn’t serve anything stronger than a glass of ice water inside the garden. Cain and Abel were old folkies, the first harmonizing brothers. Paving the way for the Isleys, the Louvins, and the Wilsons. 

Like many groups, things started out well enough. Passing around the hat. The trouble was finding and sustaining a following. There weren’t a lot of people on earth besides their parents. They couldn’t find an audience. With most groups, it comes down to songwriting credit and top billing. Cain and Abel were no different. Abel wanted to see if he could find some footing as a solo artist, but Cain, the less talented of the two, had no interest in breaking up.

So when it comes to Hall and Oates, the end could certainly be much worse. At least they got about fifty years of hits before calling it quits. Today, tomorrow, or several thousand years in the past, it always comes down to one thing: ego. 

Holiday News Flash

 

Anyone who knows me knows that ever since my road test at seventeen, I have honed an unparalleled defensive driving tool. Namely, the marriage of honking and high beams, or, what I like to call, “thunder and lightning.” For the purposes of today, I will focus on the lightning part, even though the car horn, not the cello, should have been my chosen musical instrument way back when. 

 

During the holiday season, harsh criticism is usually reserved for the nonstop carols polluting every public space. But songs are a fundamental part of the Christmas spirit. Do I need to hear Jingle Bell Rock seven times a day? Maybe not. However, my beef is with displays, not nativity ones, but specifically those with flashing lights. There is nothing illuminating about inducing a seizure. Though the frothing of the mouth can be reminiscent of an overflowing glass of eggnog. Flashing lights are meant to get someone’s attention during an emergency, help land a plane, or check for survivors buried in a collapsed mine shaft. But they should not be a part of Christmas. 

 

You want lights? Get lights. Clean, stable, and non-flashing ones. The only acceptable flashing is if it’s solely the result of flickering candles. While this exponentially increases the risk of a house fire, at least it’s done so without putting any undue stress on the electrical grid. Not only that, flashing as a concept conjures up images of trench coats and nothing else. If I wanted to see something flashing, I would whittle away the workday staring at animated GIFs of Rudolph’s blinking schnozz. 

 

I thought the appeal of flashing lights wax extinguished during the Saturday morning heyday of Dragon Ball Z and its epileptic legacy. Looks like I was wrong. 

Eh I

 

Technology has come so far, so fast. It seems like just yesterday that we were sitting on our hands, waiting patiently as early Internet pages barely materialized after minutes of buzzing and beeping from a dial-up modem. But the AI revolution is something else entirely. Many so-called humanists have forsaken their closest friends for purer screen companionship with certain chatbots that shall remain faceless. Not nameless though – I bet you can guess that. 

My reluctance to jump in was a result of cautiousness. That’s changed with the advent of Eh I. I no longer have to fake it when someone asks me to explain the difference between bacon and Canadian bacon. I now have assistance when explaining the events that led to Gordon Lightfoot’s success. I can speak extemporaneously on why SCTV has sturdier legacy than the decomposing behemoth that is SNL.

Being Canadian is profound, but as an American I could ever get so close to it. The music of Neil Young, the iconography of a cartoon moose, and the real estate rantings by sore losers after another presidential election doesn’t go their way. Canada is so close, yet so far. But now, with Eh I, we can finally relate to our quirky friends to the north with real slang and authentic pop culture references. 

Shameless George

With lackluster figures polluting the halls of congress, George Santos somehow rose above the fray like a vintage parade float. I’ll miss the man and his unusual blend of tight-fitting sweaters, steely indignation, and good yarns. Like Christ, he’s about to enter the wilderness. But if anyone can reinvent himself it’s the Picasso of prevarication. Shamelessness and creativity will serve him well, in Hollywood or on his tax return. What’s next? A late-night show, a televised two-step with imploding stars, or a tell-all book. Liberty is our nation’s founding principle. What’s wrong with taking a few along the way?  

Empty Office Space

 

Many ad agencies are struggling with the monumental task of getting employees to return to the office. People far smarter than me have argued that to accomplish this they must provide real incentives. 

 

Typical perks involve cacophonous foosball tables accompanied by raucous players, hooting at every shot. Some agency leaders prefer to keep a few pooches around, free candy, a stocked fridge, and a sizable fish tank. Music in the bathrooms and bad art in the hallways. But this is expected.  

 

I’m partial to the carrot and stick method. The carrot being actual jars of carrots left on every open surface, and the stick being room temperature sticks of unsalted butter to encourage baking. Adding beds and showers isn’t a bad idea either. You can’t expect people to sleep in the office if they don’t have a place to catch a few hours of shuteye.

Frankly, if open offices were truly open, they would remove all the desks, chairs, computers and other obtrusive tech so people could take wind sprints through the building. Steve Prefontaine was fast on a track, but how would he have fared across carpet, linoleum and fake wood? Too bad we won't ever find out. 

Pillow Talk

 

One of the first things visitors notice about New York is the enormous, towering piles of garbage. While there is a bit of topographical intrigue in the Bronx and Manhattan, the real mountains are not found in the schist jutting out from Central Park, but on every sidewalk. The trouble with the city’s garbage system is that the use of black bags prevents gawking, ogling, and examining. It’s hard to know what to make of your neighbors without knowing first what they willingly kick to the curb. 

The sad truth about refuse that many refuse to believe, is not every piece is the same. Among the heaps exist strata of trash. What disgusts us, what horrifies us upon sight, sound, and smell is not what some typically expect. Except for the weathered sanitation worker, most people are grossed out by prodigious bags of rotting meat, produce, or pet excrement smeared along the gutter. To me, this is all standard, honestly boring material. Who doesn’t gather up kitty litter and moldy plums for a one-way ticket to the dump?  

Last night though, I saw something that stopped me cold. Three pillows on the ground, laid out neatly, and worst of all, showing no visible signs of grime. We know why people get rid of mattresses and bed frames. But pillows? Some of us accumulate pillows for a lifetime, slowly building up a fortress of comfort without limits. They help us think and sleep. They are used to let off steam and engage in pugilistic acts with siblings. Pillows are there to help us work through issues. And pillow cases have none of the problems associated with large financial institutions. So seeing three tossed off was a harrowing image, forcing me to reconsider the state of the city. I can handle needles and crack pipes. Same with firearms. But pillows? What kind of monster does this. I’ll take a bag of raw sewage any day over a good as new down pillow on the ground.

Two Bad

 

In New York, gone are the evenings of extended leisure. Restaurants are now asking diners to keep their meals to two hours. This eliminates the ordering of appetizer after appetizer, multiple desserts, and drinks at every turn. Some gastro-heads are up in arms. I hope the trend spreads to other facets of polite society.

 

Movies should have a federally mandated limit of two hours. Same goes for dates or debates. The workday should be confined to the same time frame as well. Sporting events, road trips, and gallery openings. A law like this would force people to get to the point. No more protracted meandering allowed, under penalty of imprisonment. Which, I should add, will be much longer than two hours. 

 

If you can’t figure it out in two hours, move on to something else. 

Elements of Persuasion

Bringing others to your side is a lot like opening a menu at a Chinese restaurant. There are a lot of options. Some go for the rational, making an argument based on facts. Others feel more comfortable staying within the emotional realm, convincing people through anecdotes. Then there are the data nerds, poring over spreadsheets with numbers and graphs. Or the allegorical folks, telling an analogous story, like a fable from ancient times with a hidden, deeper meaning.

But sometimes, none of the above works. People won’t listen and they won’t come around to your point of view. That is when the best course of argumentation is one you must do sitting down. 

When in doubt, block traffic. Preferably a major artery like a bridge or tunnel, in the middle of the day when lots of ordinary people are going about their normal routine. There is nothing like sitting in a throng of cascading car horns to make you reconsider your priors. Because horrendous, man-made traffic gives you plenty of time to think. 

Santos Claus

 

I know it’s still November and we haven’t reached Thanksgiving yet, but your old friend, Santos Claus, is here to wish you a very Merry Christmas. And I have gifts to deliver to all the good little boys and girls. But first, a few words...

You’re most likely wondering where my sleigh is. It’s in the shop as we speak, being repaired by non-unionized elves. If you think the discourse is getting polarized here in America, come to the North Pole and see the difference. Where are my reindeer? That’s another great question. They are next door waiting on the paperwork from the sleigh. I try and delegate things.

Where’s Kris K. you ask? He watched everything unfold with my successful campaign last year and decided to throw his support my way. As someone who didn’t even grow up with a chimney, it was an especially moving moment. 

I thought about bringing presents and wrapping each one individually, but I’d rather take down your list now and use my Amazon Prime account. They still offer free two-day shipping all throughout the holiday season. I realize many of you are underage and don’t yet have full-fledged bank accounts, but some of you probably have allowances. Am I right? Well, I want to let you in on a little secret. The associated costs of Christmas have gone up for everyone, which includes Kringle himself. due in part to inflation as well as poor financial planning. Yeah, I said it. So the reality is, if you want really good Christmas presents this year, I am going to ask all you to make a small donation into my reelection fund. 

Instead of a collection plate, here is my Venmo. Cash is always appreciated. I hope the funds help put me back in office, I mean, buy what’s left on your wish list.  

Walk in the Park

 Ah, it’s a perfect day. A beautiful day. And would you look at that? Over there, just behind a massive oak tree are a group of squirrels gnawing on something. Could be garbage or an unmentionable extremity. Sometimes squirrels eat nuts, sometimes they don’t. By the benches is middle-aged man sanding the edges of his milk crate for a late afternoon diatribe. This lecture series is short on facts, but not on mental illness. Being a self-proclaimed prophet requires a lot of self-proclaiming. There’s a guy with a metal detector in search of treasure, but mostly, he’s alerting his fellow park goers to his misbegotten quest. A collection of hippies gather around a bongo drum. Like most of their kind, they are of indeterminate age. Could they have just graduated college? Possibly. Either that or escaped the Vietnam War my skedaddling to Canada. 

It’s just another walk in the park. Only one you wouldn’t want to do with open-toed sandals on account of all the leftover syringes from your neighborhood needle exchange. 

Letter to Osama

 

You’re probably wondering why I like you suddenly, after having read your Letter to America. It’s simple, really. I’m a moron. And not in a jovial, fun-loving, life-of-the-party, John Belushi in Animal House sort of way. Just a complete and utter nincompoop. 

I have never picked up a book that you couldn’t find in the spinning rack at your local supermarket. The truth is, I come from a long line of idiots and imbeciles (peace be upon them). Some of them I’m related to, others taught me in college. I thought I was having an existential crisis after reading your words, but pretty quickly, I realized I had no idea what meant. Either way, you’ve changed my outlook on things. I look forward to reading the Unabomber’s manifesto, Mein Kampf, and listening to the musical stylings of Charlie Manson to get a better sense of what really happened in the 20^th century. I’m so often misunderstood that the one thing I always understand is that. I can identify it in others, whether they are on trial or relieving themselves behind a dumpster. 

It also helps that I don’t remember 9/11. To me, it’s just a couple numbers (three to be exact). My lack of historical perspective means I am a sponge for information, whatever the source. 

You seem like a reasonable guy. Did you know that beards are very popular again here in The West? Lumberjack chic or something. Plus, someone said you’re what we call a “nepo baby”, your father being a billionaire construction tycoon. Too bad you weren’t available when Lena Dunham was initially casting Girls. I think you could’ve replaced Adam Driver. Did you know he was marine? 

What I like about your letter, besides the paragraph breaks which make it much easier to read, is how you make everything so simple. There are a couple of groups to blame for everything and that means I don’t have to read any deeper. I know who the bad actors are, well, besides Brendan Fraser, of course. But you lay it out so succinctly it’s hard to argue against, especially since I have never heard of any of this stuff. Might as well take your word for it.

I know lots of my peers are posting videos on TikTok about this, but since you wrote I letter, I figured it was the least I could do. After reading your letter, I don't think I'll ever fall for propaganda again. Haven’t converted yet, but you never know...

Anyway, thanks for writing, sorry it's taken me so long to respond. In my defense, I wasn't even born in November 2002. 

Based on a Truly Bad Story

  

We open in a large boardroom with a bank of windows. Skyscrapers are in the distance. There are dozens of people sitting down at a long wooden table. Some are in suits while others are wearing cut-off t-shirts with ornate sleeve tattoos. All are patiently to hear what the one person standing has to say…

 

It’s a super simple idea when you think about it. But it’s best to not even think about it, that way it’s even simpler than that. Why? Because this thing happened. It happened not too long ago. Not years, not months, but days. There’s plenty of documentation we can use. In fact, we can cast some of the real-life players in roles. I know them all personally. What’s better than having people play themselves? A little different than playing with themselves, which we can probably still work into the script, if that’s still a note. 

 

Did this rise to a significant event in the annals of world history? Maybe not. But we can certainly milk a multi-episode series out of it. I’d like to produce the show in real time. That means way more content. If you thought 24 was long and overwrought, you’ve never seen anything like this.

 

The only thing we desperately need are celebrities to sign on. They will love the part of a regular person going about a regular day. The lunch episode will be a three-hour extravaganza. Let’s partner with local eateries so viewers can vicariously dine with the stars.  

 

Don’t ask me to describe the details of the show. There’s no trial. No big conflict. No drama. No comedy. No moral. It’s life about a semi-famous person having a somewhat bad day. 

 

It sure beats trying to make up a good story. What do you think?

Slap on the Wrist

 

Whenever legal commentators say, “oh, he just got a slap on the wrist,” I take a good, long look at my two clean, pristine wrists and wonder how I’d fare under such perilous conditions. Most of us gloss over the idea of wrist slapping as a serious punishment. But let me tell you something – it’s not exactly back slapping, the universal gesture for jocularity. 

 

I know plenty of white-collar criminals who’d rather pay a few million in fines than watch as their precious wrists suffered through excessive slapping. Which is ultimately what we want.

 

I wear a watch every day, which makes my left wrist that much more vulnerable. I’d sooner cut a deal with law enforcement than risk scuffing up a treasured family heirloom. 

 

We don’t need more people in prison. But maybe we need more slaps on the wrist.  

Martyr Sauce

 

At the end of a long day of public moralizing and grandstanding, most people could use a late-night snack. Exaggeration makes most people quite hungry. The trouble is that the typical food available in the wee hours has an extreme grease factor, which can make it hard to consume smoothly. The last thing you want during a nosh like this is to take a break. Breaks give you a moment to reflect and consider your recent decisions. 

You don’t need that though. What you need is a way to eat without consequences or unnecessary pauses. So you can power through any second thoughts or second desserts, whichever comes up first. 

Martyr sauce always does the trick. It can resurrect the bland meal and turn it into a jihad on the senses. Or, if you prefer, a holy war for your tastebuds. You’ll get so much undeserved sympathy and undue praise, that by the time the check comes, the waiter will be tipping you. 

Odorless, Colorless, Driverless

The prospect of autonomous vehicles is one small step for drivers, one giant leap for insurance companies. But for me, a truly driverless car is not the reward to a life of cruising down the open road, but a punishment for a career of highway sinning.

The very worst drivers should not lose their licenses after yet another serious violation. They should have to watch as their car drives without them in control. Because it is control they are seeking and control they must lose.

For a lunatic driver, one used to weaving in and out of traffic, tailgating the nearest bumper in sight, and other boorish actions, a driverless future is what they dread the most. Being a passenger and watching as the car itself has all the fun. It’s different letting a friend take the wheel from time to time. The car as driver makes us utterly obsolete. Someone accustomed to rolling up on the median and cutting off fellow drivers will have a difficult time as a legally mandated passenger. 

As for all the good drivers out there? Well, they are free to keep cruising. That’s their reward.  

Humor shields

The use of humor shields is far more common as the civilized world wises up to the danger of laughter. Laughter is an involuntary response, which makes it wildly disturbing for those in power. Luckily, there are tools in place to prevent people from laughing at the wrong thing or at the wrong time. You must serve it up in the right context, alongside the necessary caveats, no matter how extensive.  

What you do is take a joke, or anything remotely funny, and you wrap it in serious disclaimers. Every aspect of the quip must be qualified or contextualized to sap it of its humor. Something simple and interesting quickly transforms into something both strange and offensive.

Not everyone can tell if something is offensive without footnotes and a lengthy explanation. That’s why it’s important to totally envelop any comic attempt in humor shields. Ultimately, the people are who deserve to be shielded from humor, lest they get a different idea. 

Sock it to Me

 

It’s getting colder, which means that many people will start digging thick wool socks out of musty storage units. It’s understood that during the fall and winter, keeping one’s extremities warm is a key part of daily survival. But why does it stop there?

Socks, though often derided as a thoughtless gift, have true staying power. I know people who have little to no personality besides the colorful patterns adoring their feet. It’s a way of being interesting without being interesting. 

If everyone accepts the importance of socks, why is it that we stop at knee? It seems like we’re leaving a lot of skin on the table. 

Because body socks exist. Imagine a world where everyone from Halloween to St. Patrick’s Day wore full body socks. First of all, it would make dressing for work that much easier. Think of how cozy and simple it would make things. The only reason people consider wearing a body sock crazy in public is because those are the only people who do it currently. But we could change all that with a commitment to comfort. Socks are interesting in ways most clothes – and people – are not. 

Alternate definitions of insanity

 

Instead of repeating the same thing over and over, passing it off as the definition of insanity, let’s consider something new...

 

Leaving a voicemail

 

Burning garlic in a frying pan

 

Reading the comments

 

Reclining your airline seat before takeoff

 

Taking a flyer for a free comedy show

 

Having small talk with a casual acquaintance 

 

Waiting in line for brunch

 

Riding a bike on the side

 

Signing an email with “cheers” 

 

Sharing a meme

 

Wearing headphones in public 

Bad Signs

 

Today is election day. For some people, that means next to nothing. To me, that means I don’t have to move my car for street cleaning. It also means it’s a good time to take the country’s temperature. Though it isn’t always clear how and where to insert a thermometer into the body politic. Still, we persevere. 

As you may know, there are a few matters of grave concern. Issues that are frankly keeping people up at night. Researching the particulars by reading memes or following experts on social media. But none of that is what I’m focused on today. My concern for the country is a bit more abstract. Because I am surveying things from great heights. A vantage point that allows me to truly see things how they are. 

However, my cause does touch every single municipality, no matter how small. It cuts across party lines and demographics. And it’s been a problem for a very, very long time. You can’t go anywhere in all fifty states and not see a serious sign of civic decay. 

I’m talking of course about political yard signs. Why do they have to be so ugly? There’s no visual hierarchy. The kerning, the leading, the horror. The slogans are tired, the names are too large, and the font is offensive. In a world where technological innovations have many worried for their livelihoods, why does it seem that the political sign makers continue without a care in the world? They don’t seem worried. If ever there was a job that could be done better by a robot surely it is this one. Nothing they do is even remotely artisanal. And for many of my peers, that alone is an indictment of someone’s craft. 

These hideous signs pop up every summer, multiplying in otherwise pristine yards, growing like mushrooms after a downpour. A single home sometimes has several signs for the same person. Who votes because of these? I can’t tell if you’re running for sanitation board of a tiny Alaskan village or the next Mayor of Cincinnati. 

The phrase, “do better” is thrown around a lot these days. But to me, the problem of signage is deeper than any other single issue. If we let the status quo remain, it’s not a good sign for the future.

Also Rans

Yesterday was the 52^nd New York City Marathon, where throngs of people touch all five boroughs with varying levels of intense movement. I stood safely on the sidelines, watching with the aid of a small, novelty telescope. While it is always a disturbing and quite confounding sight seeing people running for their lives for no apparent reason (I can understand the motivation to run amid a volcanic eruption or another environmental cataclysm). But that was not the most bizarre thing I saw. Although it did involve running.

As I approached the course, hearing encouraging words and off-key renditions of Queen’s most familiar and finest songs, I felt the heavy breeze of a panting interloper. It was a man in tight shorts running by me. He had no number on his chest, no cheering section rooting him on, and no reason to run. I’m not exactly calling for more laws to ban this obnoxious display of self-aggrandizement, but I think there should be some serious reputational cost for those who run apart from the marathon on Marathon Sunday. 

It’s like bringing a ball, bat, glove and jersey to a baseball game, playing a little pepper in the outfield bleachers while the professionals get to work. There is a vetting process for the marathon and while I can’t imagine a single reason to run for 26.2 miles, if the city gives you the green light, I say, God bless. 

But if they don’t? Change your routine. Sleep in. Go for a walk. Grab a bite. And take the L. 

 

Late Night Programming

 

As networks scramble for what to air late at night, they should consider bucking the norms. At this point in television history, there’s no need to place a lukewarm body behind a fake wood desk, lording over guests like a feudal chieftain. It’s not their office, so they don’t need a desk. They aren’t there late at night, doing paperwork, long after the last grip has gone home in an empty panel van. 

 

Instead of a host for a typical variety show, why not let infomercials run in their place? Everyone could use more cutlery, especially the kind that can saw the handle off a bank vault. 

 

Televising obscure sports from a distant land could be nice. Why not watch a bunch of foreigners chase after a ball riding an endangered beast? 

 

You could do something more minimalist. For instance, the snowy fuzz of yesteryear was mesmerizing for a certain generation. The tech guru’s static yule log. 

 

It can’t be any worse than what we keep rolling out there. Can it?