CHRISTMAS DOLLS

The Wii and X-Box 360 are two of the hottest toys this Christmas. Video games’ popularity changes however from year to year, but dolls are perennial favorites year after year. New for this Christmas are some dolls for you grown up boys and girls.

There’s the Gov. Rod Blagovich auctioneer doll that sells senate seats, funding for children’s hospitals, his soul and the Governor’s fine china and silverware to the highest bidder.

There’s the President-elect Barrack Obama doll that leans to the left, but turns right with each cabinet selection.

There’s the Brittany Spears’ doll that can’t keep its pants up or its top down.

There’s the George W. Bush doll that just shrugs when asked hard question about his presidency and legacy.

There’s the John McCain doll that spins 180 degrees every time it assumes a new position.

There’s the Sarah Palin doll that turns itself on and can’t stop talking until totally ignored by the Time Passes doll.

There’s the Hillary Clinton doll that won’t take dictation but will give dictation as a Secretary.

There’s the Bill Clinton doll that hits on the Brittany Spears doll, even if she’s on her period. Comes with a cigar and a squeegee.

There’s the Plaxico Burress doll that dances and screams at the sound of gunfire in his sweatpants.

There’s the Big Three Auto Makers’ Dolls that cry, sniffle and wet their pants begging for a Bail Out and a golden parachute for when they bail out.

There’s the Boy George doll that handcuffs his Ken doll to the wall and beats the crap out of it with the leg irons from the George Michael doll.

There’s the Amy Winehouse doll that gets drunk and throws up on her Barbie dolls.

There’s the “Twilight” doll that just sucks.

There’s the Keanu Reeves alien doll that shows the same vacant emotions as the Keanu Reeves action human doll.

Batter up and play doll, this Christmas.

A CHRISTMAS ANGEL FLY BY

My name is Angel, the Christmas Angel. Yeah I know, Angel the angel. I got that a lot in flight school. I’m the angel in charge of Christmas spirit in the northeast quadrant of North America. In fact I’m related to Clarence the angel in It’s A Wonderful Life on my mother’s side. He’s got his wings now and is charge of the Mid East. He’s about ready to quit and bomb everybody himself.
I come down here once a year to instill a little Christmas spirit into the crass commercialism that big business has crammed into your Christmas. How do I do that? Well, I fly around up here looking down on you and… Excuse me a minute. I see something. Gotta go.
Sorry about that, I spotted a lost child, separated from her mother at the Nittany Mall in the crush of the crowd. There was a man watching the little girl way too closely and he was hurrying toward her like a hawk diving on a mouse. I swooped down to turn the mother’s head just in time to see her baby crying next to the Orange Julius stand. She’s hugging her little girl now like she was the best Christmas gift ever. The man disappears into the crowd.
I hate to brag, but I’m the one who puts the bug in the ear of the TV network honchos to run those old Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer Christmas cartoons every year. The toons may be primitive animation, but they’re timeless and touch the child in you baby boomers in your peak earning years for the advertisers. And that’s what Christmas is- timeless, childlike and holy… cow gotta go again.
I’m back now. I was just sunning myself on a cumulus cloud when I noticed an echo empty Salvation Army kettle outside of Wal-Mart. So I flew down there to bump some pockets and jingle some change to remind you shoppers to give to the less fortunate this time of year.
But my best flights are when I soar into your fleeting thoughts and make you curb your tongue, swallow your pride and forgive your family and friends for all the wrongs they did to you this past year. So you can clasp them to your bosom like a too tight t-shirt.
I hover here to remind you that you never know who’ll be around to share your next Christmas with you. Always cherish Christmas with your loved ones like it was your last, because someday it will be. I get estranged sisters talking to each other. I make mad husbands kiss their angry wives under the mistletoe and I even cause children to be considerate of their parents, an even bigger miracle. Niger.
I fill your hearts with the spirit of forgiving and giving. It keeps the shoppers happy and the economy going. It gives children their first puppies, girls their engagement rings and dads bad ties. I help to pick the perfect Christmas tree with your spouse without having to file for divorce. If you don’t hang your stockings by the chimney with care, I re-hang them for you. I find you parking spaces in packed mall parking lots after only 15 minutes of driving up and down looking.
I bring grown children back to their parents, sisters to their brothers and crazy aunts and uncles to your homes for the holidays. I get everyone flying and driving all over the country to return to their roots once a year, no matter how embarrassing that may be to them. I help get you hugs and kisses from your past life by lassoing old loyalties, that then tug at your heart strings and go ping, ping, Cherie.
Look there’s Hank who’s 100. He’s outlived everyone he loves and loved him. He’s sharing the holidays with some wet adult diapers and a nurse’s aid at the home. Do you see that small smile sneaking across his face? He’s five years old and it’s Christmas day with his long dead parents. The turkey is basting and the pies are baking. He and his ghost brothers and sisters are tearing into their presents under the tree. His first dog Princie is licking his face.
Everyone is laughing and so is Hank because he’s having the best Christmas of his life… again. I did this.

THE MEN WHO SAVED THE WORLD

“Move it, grandpa!” Shout some running boys as they bump into the old man waddling down the middle of the mall.
“Grandpa?” he says stumbling back. “Ask me about my grandchildren, you damn punks.”
Gravity seems to be pulling the old man down to the ground, as he slides slouching against the Walden Books’ window. Old age lowers you closer and closer to the earth till it puts you six feet under. Gravity is the lever.
The young man bear hugs his bride like he’ll never let her go, their hearts beating together so loudly it seems like they share one chest. She’s sobbing as he strokes her long black hair and whispers that he loves her over and over again. Tears trickle down his cheeks too, as he kisses her wet quivering lips.
The old man zooms along at 47 miles an hour in a 65 mile zone, where everyone’s going 70 to75. Cars honk and swerve around him as he clutches the steering wheel and stares straight ahead. He’s just too slow for this fast paced world.
The young man is quick and strong as he sweats his way though boot camp. He sleeps with his rifle, but dreams about his wife, who he writes to every other day. He doesn’t know when he’ll ship out, but hopes to get a leave to go home before. He misses his wife so much.
The old man sleeps alone in his king size bed, his wife of 52 years having died of cancer the Christmas before last. Sometimes, just before he slips into sleep, he can still feel her in their bed. His misses his wife so much.
It’s the end of the young man’s ten day leave. He’s saying goodbye to his weeping wife at the train station. Their life together has just been a series of long goodbyes. One minute he’s a farm boy and the next he’s a soldier sailing overseas. Life just goes too fast for him. He’d like to stop it for a moment, put it on his front porch and lazily watch the day drift by, while snuggling with his baby.
The old man moves even slower since his operation. He’s now up to almost 30 pills a day, just to keep going more slowly. He’s been hospitalized three times in the last two years. His body just shuts down regularly for repairs now. His kids call, but the closest one is 890 miles away, so they’re a helluva lot of help, he thinks. Everyone he loves is just so far away, with his wife the farthest.
The young man lands in England. It’s jumping and jiving with Yanks. He’s stationed at RAF Bentwaters, with his wife far away in the states. He walks around the base at night waiting and wondering. They all do. Nobody sleeps at night.
The old man gets up about a dozen times a night to hurry to the bathroom and wait for something to happen. As he’s shrunk in size, his prostate has grown larger. It’s one of old age’s ironies that he’s now enjoying.
They’re launching tomorrow. The young man’s just gotten his orders. He writes his pregnant wife one last letter telling her it might be a while before she hears from him again and that he loves her so much.
The old man uses his cane to walk to the McDonalds on the corner to get his free cup of breakfast coffee for senior citizens. He sits in a sunny booth watching the people come and go, go and come. With the warmth of the morning sun on his shoulders, he closes his eyes and quietly remembers.
The noise is deafening with the roar of the engines, the shelling and the swelling sea. All the men are either praying or throwing up, as the waves toss them about in the boat like a giant game of jacks.
The landing craft door drops open and the air is alive with zipping bullets flying overhead and into helmets, killing men instantly. Bodies fall and leap into the surging surf, with everyone still alive scrambling for the sand.
The young man is surging with adrenalin and shock, just trying to dodge the bullets and burrow himself into the beach like a sand crab. A GI to his right is blown in half, another in a daze searches for his shot off arm and a third tries to stuff his spilling guts back into the huge hole in his belly. They are all in hell on Omaha Beach. It is D-Day.
The old man stops taking his medicine and is discovered three days after he dies by the smell. He wasn’t needed any more, like he was before back in ’44, when he was a young man helping to save the world. Happy Veteran’s Day.

A BOARDWALK BAND OF BROTHERS

While strolling down a N.J. boardwalk we noticed an elderly couple heading our way. My wife and I had been arguing about the huge beach houses along the boardwalk and whether they were rentals or single-family homes. One behemoth in particular had so many private balconies connected to individual rooms that I thought that surely they would be rented out separately in the summer.
I stopped the couple to ask them if they might know. As it turned out, I was wrong again. The son of a friend of the couple’s owned the biggest house. I said what a waste. The rich always depress me. They have so much serving so few.
I started talking to Rich, the husband, and my wife talked to his wife. The conversations split along gender lines. The women talked about their children and grandchildren, while we talked about war, specifically WWII. Rich had been with the 101st Airborne Division that had landed during the Normandy invasion of Nazi occupied Europe.
It was like having a face to face talk with the Band of Brothers, the past HBO WWII miniseries about Easy Company in the 101st Airborne that landed at Normandy, fought in the Battle of the Bulge, liberated a concentration camp and captured Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest retreat.
There standing beside me was a silver-haired 79-year-old small man who, when he was 19, fought in the seminal war of the 20th century and helped win the war so that we baby boomers could grow up free in the 1950s and enjoy the American way of life.
It may be ancient history now, but at the time it could easily have gone either way.
Rich’s children had taken him to the WWII movie Saving Private Ryan. He had sat through it fine, but upon leaving the theater he broke down crying. Its realism had brought back so many bad memories.
A friend was taping Band of Brothers for him. Since this was about his own division, he was in F Company, and reportedly accurate, I can’t imagine how Rich will react after seeing all 10 episodes.
I’ve seen Band of Brothers and felt that the first few parts were very confusing because so many men were killed, that you hadn’t gotten to know, that you couldn’t keep track. Which was probably how the battles themselves went. But as you got to know the soldiers you ended up amazed at what they went through, when they were basically kids, and what they had accomplished.
As we stood there under the eerie glow of a mist shrouded street lamp along the long lonely boardwalk with the surf pounding the shore, Rich became a young man again reliving his youth, which was WWII. He didn’t talk about the endless death, destruction and danger. He talked about getting frostbite during the Battle of the Bulge in France when the Germans made one final desperate push to break through the allied lines and stop the Normandy invasion
The German attack was a total surprise- swift, savage and it almost worked. Rich said that Hitler was so furious that eight elite Panzer tank divisions couldn’t break through our stretched to the limit line of confused soldiers, that he just kept trying to push through the middle in a rage. If he would have withdrawn, regrouped and swept around our sides to surround us, he could have stopped us dead. His own maniacal pride prevented this, so we went on to Berlin, instead of getting slaughtered in France.
Rich said he changed his wet socks regularly so he wouldn’t get the dreaded trench foot, but got frostbite instead. He was sent back to England in horrible pain for two months to recover. They had fought in snow and ice without their winter uniforms and Rich said he had never been so cold for so long in his life. Maybe that’s why he’s living in sunny California now.
When Rich returned to the front he participated in a practice exercise where they parachuted into a firefight like they would over the Rhine River into Germany. They used real explosives and Rich was hit in the leg by a piece of shrapnel, the size of an arrowhead that threw him thru the air like a rag doll. He was sent back to England to recover again.
He only recently filed for a disability as the shrapnel still lodged in his leg was making him limp. It took over three years of paperwork to get and, at the end; he had to provide an eyewitness account from over 50 years ago. Luckily, an old war buddy came thru and he started getting his WWII pension at age 78.
A strange thing had happened to me soon after the terrorist attacks of 9/11. As I walked into a restaurant a lady approached me and ask if I was a veteran. I said, “Yes during Nam, but I only went to England.” She shook my hand and said “Thank you.” I told Rich this and ask if I could shake his hand. He let me and I said “Thank you.” because I looked up to this little old man that I had just met, so much.

CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE MOLE

A red, white and blue rainbow arched over his hut when Mamadou Tutu was born. He was a bright boy growing up poor in a third world country. There was no newspaper for a paper route to earn money, so he made his lunch money gambling behind the school before classes began.
More than a few times he was late for school and sometimes never made it at all as the poker pots went up and down depending on lady luck’s whims, and he couldn’t leave till he had won for the day. Sometimes he had to write and sign excuses from his mother saying he’d been too sick to attend school that day.
Mamadou was smart enough to go to college, where his skills at one card stud (they couldn’t afford five card stud in his country) and the two card monty games he set up in the quad between classes paid for his tuition.
Once though the campus cops arrested him for gambling and a letter of reprimand was sent to his parents about it. Soon afterwards though, his parents got another letter from the college president saying it had all been a mistake and Mamadou was just an innocent bystander and to send him a box of cookies to make him feel better. The first letter was from the president, the second one was from Mamadou himself copying the president’s signature.
He graduated from college and then joined the diplomatic corps to get paid to see the world. He felt he was on the fast track to get a top diplomatic job. He was confidant enough to marry his village sweetheart and they proceeded to have four children, a dog and a monkey as pets.
He moved around the world’s embassies and became the chief aid to the ambassador, an important step on the ladder to success. But he stumbled on one of it rungs the night he got smashed on vine wine at the ambassador’s birthday party. Blind drunk he made a pass at the ambassador’s son Dutu, who was dressed in drag for a fraternity initiation.
This passionate encounter consequently turned Dutu into a transvestite, as he was questioning his sexual identity at the time, and it was discovered that there was no fraternity initiation. Dutu eventually joined a sorority instead and became their Queen.
The ambassador was furious and demoted Mamadou to be the aid of an aid. His pay was cut drastically and he was transferred back home. He started gambling again to make ends meet, this time on chicken races.
But his country was so poor that when someone saw a chicken running it would be snatched up immediately, killed and cooked for supper. Consequently, none of the chickens actually made it to the finish line so there was never a winner.
Since the races were his idea, Mamadou soon became a public laughingstock. He had to leave town and country and was transferred to Rome, where he became addicted to pizza and ate out so much he couldn’t pay the bills. His wife was about to leave him, his kids were looking around for another father they could be proud of and his beloved monkey turned against him.
Suddenly he came up with this killer idea. There had been rumors around for years about his country’s sale of uranium to Iraq, so he decided to capitalize on this need to feed into Iraq’s weapons of mass d. His skills from school came forth and he forged some documents showing that Iraq was trying to buy uranium ore from his country Niger in 1999 and 2001. In effect, he became his own mole making up secrets to quench this thirst for terrorist ties.
But his skills had peaked when he forged his mother’s signature on school sick excuses and he had poor equipment. He had to use obsolete letterheads, incompatible dates and poorly forged signatures. In his haste, he even addressed a letter to the president of Niger signed by the president of Niger, and used the wrong symbol for the president’s office.
He took these documents to the Italian secret service and crossed his fingers. Yippee, they bought them for a thousand bucks! He was rich, rich! Mamadou’s terrible forgeries went on to fool both British and American intelligence and actually ended up in President Bush’s State of the Union address and were used as a reason to invade and attack Iraq.
This lowly Niger diplomat, turned mole conman, is now the most famous person the CIA wants to kill, even more so than Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. Truly, this is a chicken soup for the mole inspirational tale.

SOME MIND TICKLINGS

Do you love obscure facts that amaze you and five minutes later are forgotten? Well, here are some major facts to forget and some minor thoughts from me to discard.
Conception occurs more often in December than in any other month. Gives a whole new meaning to Christmas gifts, doesn’t it?
Half of all Americans live 50 miles from their birthplace, while the ones from central Pa. live closer. We just never seem to want to leave home.
The most popular name boat owners call their boats is Obsession. The least popular is probably The Titanic.
If you were to spell out numbers, how far would you have to count until you found the letter “A”? Well to begin with, I just wouldn’t do that. I’d find something on TV to watch first. But if you did, it’d be 1,000.
Man can read smaller print than women, but women can hear and smell better. Women definitely smell better than smelly old men and they can hear a man’s thoughts when he looks at another woman, which is why they yell, “I know what you’re thinking. So stop it!”
The only food that doesn’t spoil is honey, but if you spoil your honey she’ll reward you later.
Women invented bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers and laser printers. Men invented the forward pass for football and to hit on women.
There are more collect calls on Fathers Day than on any other day of the year. And yes, we always accept the charges. Hey, the kids could need some quick cash sent.
Coca-Cola was originally green and probably called Chlorophyll Cola and proclaimed a vegetable.
Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair. But I don’t have any hair. Oh, that explains so much.
The cost of raising a medium-size dog to age 11 is $6, 400. The result: Priceless.
Now for some minor thoughts that are also shallow.
If you buy somebody a lottery ticket as a present, chances are you’ll be scared that it’ll win big and they won’t share it with you. Then their life becomes so much better, while yours stays the same, only much bitterer.
The slowest thing in the world for the average man is the average woman shopping. A woman can actually go minus 10 miles per hour when she backtracks to see what she may have missed in the store.
If you do something stupid, like fall over your own feet, it’ll probably be in front of people who know you because strangers wouldn’t appreciate it as much.
Trusting everyone you meet is like going thru life with your shoelaces untied. You’ll be in for more trips than the Enron CEO before the fall.
If it’ll make you rich quick, it’ll make you poorer quicker.
Honesty is the best policy if you’re caught in a lie and can’t get out of it any other way. Yet even then, politicians still lie.
Fill up the calendar of your life with moments, not meetings.
If at first you don’t succeed, blame someone else and sue them. It’s the American way.
How come no one can find Osama Bin Laden with a $25 million reward on his head, but a telemarketer can catch you every time you’re soaking wet and coming out of the shower with a 20-buck magazine offer?
Your days may drag, but the years fly by.
If it ain’t broke, break it. This recession economy needs you to buy more stuff.
No matter what bad rash decisions you make in life, you can always back them up with unrelated facts and misplaced feelings.
If you rob Peter to pay Paul, then change your name to Enron and seek special Presidential considerations.
Dolphins don’t swim in the dessert and the speed limit is just a suggestion on I-95 going down to Florida. Just ask Pedro at South of the Border.
The childhood game of Jacks is a metaphor for life. You throw everything you’ve got up in the air and then see what you can catch. And hope it’s not herpes.
If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, then what can keep the lawyers at bay? A peach and a pair of magnum 45s?
All the world’s a stage…one emergency. So where do we send our troops next?
Red sky in the morning sailor’s warning. Red sky at night- the ship’s on fire.
Today if you eat at working moms you’ll get nuked leftovers and Tater Tots.
Food will always fall from your fork, no matter what a big mouth you are. You can be as careful as a cop defusing a bomb and it’ll still land on your clothes. It’s de law of food supply and de land.

THE LIPSTICK ATTACK

We were madly in love and stuck together like a Velcro hinge. We were a magical couple, made for each other like Romeo and Juliet, Anthony and Cleopatra or Bill and Hillary, until the dreadful day of the lipstick attack.
But let’s go back to the beginning. My first girlfriend Linda lived on the other side of the block from me, a great distance for a seven year-old, so we met in the middle-the alley.
It had been love at first sight. She was a tomboy and I was a boy whose middle name was Tom. She was strong and fleet of foot. In fact, she was the fastest kid on the block. I was weak, skinny and easily picked on. Linda could protect me and run after the bullies to beat up at the same time, while I could dash home to mommy.
She was my girlfriend, so I could punch her in the arm and wrestle her to the ground in pure prepubescent acts of love, without her killing me. We rode our bikes together, drank from the same paper cup at the lemonade stand on the corner and ran together all summer long.
Then one sultry sticky afternoon it all changed in a cataclysmic earthquake of erotica. We were playing in her backyard as usual. Then Linda left to go into her house and came out with a tube of her mother’s lipstick.
I stood there stunned as she smeared the tube on her lips under the steaming summer sun. I’d always looked at Linda as just one of the boys, only better. And there she was suddenly turning into a girl before my very eyes. And I didn’t like it, not one bit.
She strode straight toward me with fiery flaming lips. I panicked and sought sanctuary in her backyard shed. I stood inside shaking, and then put all my 40 pounds against the door to keep her out. I held out valiantly for about five seconds, before she burst in.
Once inside she started chasing me for a kiss. Yuck! A kiss! From a girl! I had never kissed a girl before and never even wanted to. So, of course, I ran for my very life. The shed was small. I was slow. Linda was fast. She caught me in a blink.
She grabbed my head in her muddy hands. I twisted and resisted. She had my face in a vice and kissed me right on the lips- twice. I went into shock. The lipstick burned on my lips like they were branded.
I pushed myself free and ran out the shed door. Holding back tears, I wiped the lipstick and a layer of lip from my mouth with the back of my hand over and over again. I stumbled home to mom.
From then on, it was never the same between Linda and me. We still played together for years, but never mentioned the lipstick assault. Then one afternoon I saw Linda walking toward the woods with Mike, a boy two years older. I yelled at her to see if she wanted to play some pick-up b-ball, but this wasn’t the pick-up she was interested in. She totally ignored me as she walked hand in hand into the trees.
After that we never played together again. And to this day lipstick still scares me, especially if I see an elderly aunt headed my way all puckered up.