I Own A Dog

Written by Jim Henderson

I own a dog, or to be more precise, a four-legged fur-covered food processor (food goes in one end and outrepparttar other). Several considerations have prompted me to reexamine its’ purported reputation as mans’ best friend. Dog ownership, like everything else, has become more complicated sincerepparttar 118308 first canine showed up at a cave looking for a handout. Take veterinary care for instance. Our pets are entitled to a more sophisticated level of health care than existed inrepparttar 118309 entire world atrepparttar 118310 turn ofrepparttar 118311 century. Or training devices like electronic dog shock collars (currently not available for children). The difference is apparent even in something so trivial as dog food. From bones and table scraps to a modern day fare of a myriad of meat-by-products blended in a carbohydrate paste designed by a team of Nobel prize-winning nutritional dieticians (which strongly resemble reformulated table scraps). To illustraterepparttar 118312 extreme thatrepparttar 118313 consumer public has attained to, one cat food boasts that it protects a cat's urinary tract health. So far I am unable to get concerned about a cat's urinary tract health although it appears that many cat owners must be. You may have noticed that there is as yet no counterpart claim made to dog owners which leads me to believe that they are not as totally self absorbed as compared to pet owners ofrepparttar 118314 feline persuasion. Surely this paranoia isrepparttar 118315 climax of Madison Avenue's cavalcade ofrepparttar 118316 preposterous andrepparttar 118317 paltry and deserves a berth right up there with “ring-around-the-collar” and “the heartbreak of psoriasis.”

Santa For A Day

Written by Michael LaRocca

The year was 1981. I was eighteen years old. Much too young to be Santa Claus, right? Especially with my short skinny self. Right? Wrong!

It’s all my fault. I can blame nobody else. I wasrepparttar one who opened my big mouth, and I paidrepparttar 118307 price.

I was working at a restaurant called The Village Inn, down in Tampa Florida. There are no white Christmases in Tampa. Nope, it drops to about 60 in December. (16 to those of you measuring in centigrade.) The coldest month ofrepparttar 118308 year. Truly, notrepparttar 118309 best weather for wearing a padded suit, a fake mustache and beard, etc.

Lemme describe our busboys, those fellows who clean uprepparttar 118310 tables after you finish eating. There were four of us.

First we had Stacy, an engineering student atrepparttar 118311 university uprepparttar 118312 road. Very tall, very thin, very black. He was never a candidate forrepparttar 118313 position of Santa Claus and he didn’t want to be one. This isrepparttar 118314 same guy who’d work for six hours, get so exhausted he could barely move, then pop off torepparttar 118315 restroom for a moment and come back running and dancing inrepparttar 118316 aisles. He swore he wasn’t taking speed, but nobody believed him.

Next we had Ricky, a high school student. He was short. Shorter than me, and not many could say that back in those days. If we were auditioning for elves, he’d have wonrepparttar 118317 job. But Santa? No way. His ambition was to formrepparttar 118318 world’s first all-white funk band. He introduced me torepparttar 118319 music of a then-obscure fellow named Prince. Last I heard, Ricky was breeding snakes.

Then we had Michael LaRocca. That would be me. Not a bad fellow, really. Working to pay his way through college. Thick legs (muscle, thank you) and broad shoulders. But it was never any big secret that he didn’t especially like kids. To be blunt about it, he still doesn’t. Apologies to any parents reading this, but Michael was never meant to be one. It’s just that simple.

Finally, we had Mike. Tall, thin, angular, thin, blonde, thin, and sunburnt. Oh, and did I mention thin? I don’t know if/where he was a student, but his face lookedrepparttar 118320 youngest of us all. A real surf dude. He even called people “dude.” In fact, when this unlikely candidate gotrepparttar 118321 job of being Santa Claus, he would say “What do you want for Christmas, dude?” Even torepparttar 118322 girls.

The dining room manager was always a consummate professional. Quite strict onrepparttar 118323 busboys. A drill sergeant of a woman, in fact. Maybe she was a prison warden in another life. Her name was Jo LaRocca. That’s right, my mom.

On Christmas Eve, Mike put onrepparttar 118324 Santa garb and sat at his post. The rest of us were laughing before he even got there. He looked absurd. Sunburnt Santa. The beard was falling off his angular red face, and any fool could compare his padded upper body to his skinny legs and see that this was NOT Santa Claus. He was a joke, and we enjoyed it thoroughly.

Day one of two, Mike was hanging out withrepparttar 118325 kids. They weren’t buying it. It was obvious. I like Mike a lot, don’t get me wrong. We all did. Bussing tables or BSing inrepparttar 118326 breakroom, he was hilarious. Givenrepparttar 118327 stresses ofrepparttar 118328 job, we needed hilarious. But he wasrepparttar 118329 worst Santa ever. Kids were yelling at him, peeing on him, calling him a fake. It was a disaster.

Should folks laugh at their co-workers? Of course not. But could we stop ourselves? Of course not! And as we all laughed at him, mocked him, and just plain acted real stupid, I maderepparttar 118330 biggest mistake of all. I dared to utterrepparttar 118331 words, “I could do better than that.” Mom heard me say them. This was very bad.

Thus, day two of two, yours truly got to play Santa Claus. An eighteen-year-old Santa Claus. An underage alcoholic with a bad attitude. Mom was a strict boss, in case I forgot to mention that. She told it like it was. Be Santa, or be unemployed. Grr! So, on Christmas Day, which I’m fairly sure was a Sunday (our busiest day ofrepparttar 118332 week), I was Santa Claus.

I strapped onrepparttar 118333 various and sundry accouterments required to be Santa Claus and checked myself out inrepparttar 118334 mirror. Not bad, to be honest. But I was in no mood to be honest. Kids? Noooo!!!

It didn’t take me long to work outrepparttar 118335 deal. I’d seen most of these kids every Sunday for about a year, but even if I hadn’t, I knew what was what. The girls were all angelic, andrepparttar 118336 boys were all evil. Truly, mean rotten nasty evil. It was in their eyes. Demonic eyes. You know how some photos show people with red eyes? Inrepparttar 118337 case of these little dudes, it wasn’t bad photography. It’s just how they were.

Withrepparttar 118338 girls, it was easy. “Yes yes, you’ve been a good girl this year. What do you want Santa to bring you?” Then I’d hearrepparttar 118339 list and say encouraging things and send them on their merry way. Quite simple.

The boys were different.

Let me backtrack a bit. I am Scrooge. Sorry if that offends you, but I am. Back in my younger days, I was even worse. For me, Christmas isn’t Christmas unless I can watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas. I have yet to forgive him for wimping out atrepparttar 118340 end, but never mind.

Okay, here comes a little boy sitting on my lap. Or to be more specific, jumping on it. Pouncing, leaping, going for broke. Little fat bastard trying to crush my family jewels. Is there a bull’s-eye on them?! He’srepparttar 118341 Antichrist. I still have nightmares about that little... dude.

“Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! And what do you want for Christmas, young man?” I boomed in my best impression of a baritone. It wasn’t much, but it dang sure beat Mike’s wimpy little tenor. But it didn’t matter. I could’ve been God’s gift to Christmas and this little… dude would have been unimpressed.

“You’re not Santa! You suck!”

I’ve heard stories about Santa colleges, where one can go learn what to say and how to react to allrepparttar 118342 various and sundry things that naughty little boys (always boys) say. But I’ve never been to one. No, dear sweet Mom just threw me torepparttar 118343 wolves and probably laughed behind her hand. In fact, I saw her hand covering her mouth more than once. I was winging it here. So, I simply ignored his question and made something up.

“I know you’ve heard that I have two lists, right? The list of nice children andrepparttar 118344 list of naughty children.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, thoroughly unconvinced.

“But I also have a third list, one you haven’t heard about. It’srepparttar 118345 borderline list. That’s right, some children are right there onrepparttar 118346 border. Are they naughty or are they nice? I’m not sure where to put them. And to tell yourepparttar 118347 truth, little man, you are on that list.”

Stunned silence. On his part, because he’d never heard that before. On my part, because I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to make up next.

(Note to my fellow authors -- If you’re going to lie, do it big.)

“So you can tell me what you want me to bring you, but that doesn’t mean I’ll bring it. Because I don’t know if you’re naughty or nice, see? You’re borderline. Those arerepparttar 118348 hardest ones for poor ole Santa to figure out.”

(By now his mother was beaming at me. I was happy. But I had to ignore that and try to keep piling it on. That’s a lot to ask of a mere eighteen-year-old BS artist.)

“I’ll tell you what I think,” I added. “If you want to know.”


That was all he said. “Yeah.” But to whip out a cliche, his eyes spoke volumes. If this were a fishing story, I’d say he’d bitten into that bait and found a hook stuck in his mouth. Amazing!

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