December 2007 Archives

Seasons greetings from the Internet's most secular blog...to you and yours.

My non-denominational holiday gift to you...is Bill O'Reilly. Because I hate you.

Dan Fogelberg, official singer/songwriter of Furdell.com -- a title he didn't even know he had -- has passed away, at the age of 56. Remember, kids: check your prostate regularly (where applicable).

Sorry, Jews! It's that time of year when your television gets taken over by Christmas movies, Christmas specials, and very special Christmas episodes of every show. I LOVE Christmas movies. I mean really love them. I would watch Miracle on 34th Street or Christmas in Connecticut any time of year. And if I couldn't catch A Christmas Story at least once while they're showing it over and over and over again on Christmas Day then it just wouldn't seem like Christmas. That's not unusual, everyone loves the classics. But I will also sit through the most appalling crap just because it has the word "Christmas" in the title, or because someone at some point wears a Santa hat. (Die Hard is a definite exception here. Somehow if you get slaughtered while wearing the Santa hat it somewhat detracts from that Christmasy feeling.) In fact, I am so hooked on televised Yuletide joy that I will watch any ridiculous adulteration of A Christmas Carol, even the one with Tori Spelling and William Shatner. And it should shame me greatly that a new made-for-TV movie in which Christina Milian gets trapped in a Christmas snowglobe has actually sparked my interest, but lo, I am not ashamed! To celebrate my obsession, here are some terrible Christmas specials that I will watch on TV every year until I am too old and blind to see, at which point technology will probably be such that I can get them beamed directly into my brain.

A couple of tourists from Chicago made the truly idiotic mistake of asking me for directions today while I was walking downtown. Driving home from work, I realized that, while I didn't technically send them in the exact opposite cardinal direction that they were going for, it still was a far cry from what you would call the "correct" direction. I may have also named cross streets that neither cross, nor perhaps exist.

I'd feel bad, but come on -- they should have known better! My inability to grasp concepts like "north" and "east" should have been clue #1.

Seriously, how did this happen to me? Which part of my brain didn't develop right, so that everyone else has this skill that I've never quite been able to master -- this "knowing where the hell you are" skill, not to mention the "knowing where the hell you're going and how to get there" set.

This TV writer's strike is tough... no Daily Show? How am I expected to cope?

Well, there's always YouTube. Here's a look into the smooth life of Michael McDonald:

Kimberly went to see the Nutcracker ballet the other day, and I expressed how much I loved Tchaikovsky's lilting movement, "Smurfberry Crunch". She didn't believe that that's what it's called, but I have video proof, with the original lyrics:

Jerry Seinfeld's dentist has lost his license after going too far this time, over-medicating and then removing the pants of a female patient. Note that while his name is Dr. Wodja, it is disappointingly not at all pronounced "Wouldja?"

No word yet on whether the victim was an anti-Dentite.