(no subject)
It is time.
I haven't really added that many friends since last year, so almost all of you know what's coming. The Christmas Eve post. It's on its 5-year anniversary now...and having just re-read it, I can assure you it still brings a tear to my eye. A tear of laughter, that is.
I really think this thing has gotten to be of such epic, famous proportions it really needs no introduction beyond what I've already said. So without further ado, the 5 year-anniversary of the Christmas Eve Post:A'ight, I need to preface this by telling you this is all original material; in fact, it's all true. Some of this may sound like a joke, but keep in mind that there's no way in hell I could invent something this hysterical...it's just too damn good.
Let me tell you about going to church with my family. At some point I'll tell you about the rest of Christmas in similar humorous tradition, but this shit is just too good.
Christmas Eve service: We're going to the 5:00 service, complete with communion and everything else, tons of singing, and, in the usual Episcopal tradition, so much movement between kneeling, standing, and sitting that most people get a good callisthenic workout; some old farts have heart attacks.
"We" is defined as myself, my 24 year-old sister, my 22 year-old cousin, her parents (Aunt Linda and Uncle Winston), my recently-widowered grandfather, my father, and my mother, who sings in the choir. Mom gets to leave early since she has to sing; the 7 remaining people are crammed into one car.
Apparently, taking two cars is out of the question, since we can all "fit" in the Durango. "Fit", however, is a loose term in a family no shorter than 5'9"; we all have seatbelts, yes, but that's about it.
Dad drives (6'2"). Logically, the tallest person would ride shotgun, correct? Wrong, it's the shortest person, Aunt Linda (5'9"), because we'd all be a lot less comfortable with her in the back...puking her guts out. Motion sickness is a problem.
Me (6'5"), Kristine (cousin, 6'0") and Uncle Winston (6'1") ride in the second row. Grampa (6'1") and Leslie (5'10") in the way back. Second brilliant move of the night: putting the old fart the farthest away from the heating vents, and it's 18° out. Damn we're smart.
Get to church. Park in handicapped space since Grampa is with us, even if we forgot to bring his tag. Clown car unloads, other churchgoers look down noses at youngin's parked in a handicapped spot (side note: Episcopals are famous for being high-society stuck-up snobs - adultery is fine, but you'll rot in hell for using the salad fork during your main course!).
Get inside. Being the gentlemen we are, "ladies first" and Les leads the way, finally finding a row of pews to take over (seats 8, we got 7, close enough). Since we had to get there about a week early to ensure a good spot (what, we have to see the priest, not just hear him?) we plant it and sit quietly.
Quietly, that is, until Grampa starts snoring. Loudly. Buzz saw. Fog horn. Whatever you call it, that old man was drowning out the organ to no end. And so it begins: from here on out, it's all downhill...
Ben, Kristine, Leslie, and Winston all laugh hysterically. Try to hide it and just smirk, soon enough it's out-and-out laughter. Grampa wakes up, time to begin the service.
Start with singing. The music gene is not present in Atkins (keep in mind, Mom's an Atkins by marriage). Between the 7 people singing "Hark! The Herald Angels sing" we manage to have about 12 different keys, even inventing a few new notes. We're bad. REAL bad. Snickering sets in again on some of the new notes we discover.
Now it's time for the calisthenics. Everyone warmed up? Stand to sing, sit to listen, kneel to pray, stand to pray, kneel to pray, sit to listen, stand to sing...After about 5 of these, Grampa (Catholic by nature) gives up and sits down, entreating Dad and me to do the same; "No man has to do all that just to say 'Hi' to God!" The womenfolk (and Winston, in the family by marriage) are allowed to continue working out.
Sermon: It's by some lady who told us no less than 5 times she went to Yale Divinity school (so apparently she knows God better than a community college graduate). She also used to be a Broadway actress; therefore every word is enunciated to the point she sounds like she's talking to 2 year-olds. Sermon is about Billy, who wants to rake her lawn. Tells the story, and at the end Billy goes to his truck and drives away. WHAT THE FUCK?! What, he rode his R/C car? Finally we figure out (on our own) Billy wasn't the 8 year-old he sounded like...but up until the last two minutes you had me fooled.
Communion. Or, a royal disaster in 5 farts.
Fart #1: When it's our row's time to go, we all stand up. No, remember the part about being gentlemen? Well, that means when we leave, we're in front. All 4 of us stop in the aisle to let the womenfolk go. But, it then occurs to dad that Aunt Linda (in the lead) doesn't know where she's going. Send Leslie ahead? Nope. Go ahead himself? Nope. Tell Ben to jump in front? Well, not exactly. Shove the hell out of Ben in a desperate last-ditch attempt to put someone in the lead who knows what he's doing? Yup. I wasn't exactly expecting that shove, however...instead of beating Aunt Linda to the front (is it a race?), Ben goes flying...literally. According to Grampa, I "looked like a chicken that just discovered it had wings, and then thought it could fly." Chickens, and Ben, can't fly. Hit the floor (rug on ceramic tile, no padding), carpet burn, more laughter from the family.
Fart #2: On "big" days, the church includes stations for communion. But mom is up in the choir loft. I (in the lead with a headache and bright red spot on my temple) attempt to go up front to the choir. But I'm redirected. I try and sidestep, explaining, but if he won't let me by, no way are 7 going up front. Aw shit. Sorry Mom! (She never did get communion that night...I hope I didn't damn her to hell.)
Fart #3: returning to the pew.
Well again everything's solved, women in front, returning from communion. Oops, you return down the side aisle (about two feet wide), and again the men need to go in first. We trip, stumble, fumble, push, and finally shove our way past the females, get in first sit down...wrong pew. We need to be one forward. Oops.
Fart #4: We spread to other people.
Having finally found the right place to sit, and in the right order, we commence to kneeling and praying as is done after drinking wine. Kneeling forward, head to the back of the pew in front of me, I ponder the route to drive my car home. After a few requisite minutes kneeling, I lean back and slide down the pew. Now, I wasn't going at breakneck speed or anything, but I wasn't all that slow, either. I also forgot about the people behind me.
WHAM! Absolutely DRILLED this poor woman (about 35 years-old), right in the nose. Perfect head-butt, had I meant it. She's praying and the next thing she know she's flying backwards (hey, my head hurt, too). But I caught her right on the bridge of her nose. In the pain and shock of it, she falls backwards, knees coming off the kneeler. Landing on the HARD floor (no carpet here). Shock from the knees smacking tile sends her leaning off to the left, landing on her husband's legs, forcing him to fall backwards and, essentially, sitting on her. I'm rubbing my head, the lady and hubby are trying to become disentangled, everyone in a 5-pew radius is laughing, hard. My Aunt is crying and rocking back and forth with laughter.
Fart #5: Not-so-silent Night
So there is still hope for the service to be okay, good, and somber. At the end we always sing "Silent Night," kneeling, with the lights out and candles lit. We can recover. Everyone kneels. Sing music. First verse goes fine.
Disaster is only a moment away, however. Dad has been "kneeling" leaning backwards - knees on the kneeler, butt on the pew, leaning back. Between verses, he sits up and leans into the pew in front of us.
Oh.
Shit.
Dad ALSO just happens to have on a musical tie. It's touch-sensitive. It plays a VERY loud, electronic beeping version of Jingle Bells. And there's no way to shut it off. And again, this just happens to be between verses, so the whole church is quiet.
"BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP, BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP...."
and so it goes. Jingle Bells, as played by a tie. Loud as all hell breaking loose. By this time, the whole church knows where it's coming from; how couldn't they? It's got to be the same people that have snored, tripped, stumbled, shuffled, proven there isn't a musical bone in them, and damn-near KO'd an innocent bystander. Dad turns bright red, embarrassed but it's his own fault. Ben, Leslie, Kristine, and Aunt Linda are guffawing at this point...LOUD, raucous laughter, crying, and falling over each other. Organ stops, waiting for commotion to end...
On the recessional, the choir goes out first. Mom refuses to even look in our direction; we're apparently out of her will. Family makes a bee-line for the car, hoping we weren't recognized and wiping the tears from our eyes.
I'm so glad Christmas only comes once a year.
Peace.Christmas back home is going really well. Megan is fitting in just fine and we're all having a really good time. Weird to think I'll be shipping out to my "real" job in just 3 weeks.
But a very Merry Christmas to you all. Or a Happy Hanukah, Happy Yule, Merry Festivus, Good Kwanza, or whatever else you may be celebrating in the coming days. Take care everyone, and say a prayer for our soldiers, sailors and airmen overseas.
Semper paratus. Peace.
I haven't really added that many friends since last year, so almost all of you know what's coming. The Christmas Eve post. It's on its 5-year anniversary now...and having just re-read it, I can assure you it still brings a tear to my eye. A tear of laughter, that is.
I really think this thing has gotten to be of such epic, famous proportions it really needs no introduction beyond what I've already said. So without further ado, the 5 year-anniversary of the Christmas Eve Post:A'ight, I need to preface this by telling you this is all original material; in fact, it's all true. Some of this may sound like a joke, but keep in mind that there's no way in hell I could invent something this hysterical...it's just too damn good.
Let me tell you about going to church with my family. At some point I'll tell you about the rest of Christmas in similar humorous tradition, but this shit is just too good.
Christmas Eve service: We're going to the 5:00 service, complete with communion and everything else, tons of singing, and, in the usual Episcopal tradition, so much movement between kneeling, standing, and sitting that most people get a good callisthenic workout; some old farts have heart attacks.
"We" is defined as myself, my 24 year-old sister, my 22 year-old cousin, her parents (Aunt Linda and Uncle Winston), my recently-widowered grandfather, my father, and my mother, who sings in the choir. Mom gets to leave early since she has to sing; the 7 remaining people are crammed into one car.
Apparently, taking two cars is out of the question, since we can all "fit" in the Durango. "Fit", however, is a loose term in a family no shorter than 5'9"; we all have seatbelts, yes, but that's about it.
Dad drives (6'2"). Logically, the tallest person would ride shotgun, correct? Wrong, it's the shortest person, Aunt Linda (5'9"), because we'd all be a lot less comfortable with her in the back...puking her guts out. Motion sickness is a problem.
Me (6'5"), Kristine (cousin, 6'0") and Uncle Winston (6'1") ride in the second row. Grampa (6'1") and Leslie (5'10") in the way back. Second brilliant move of the night: putting the old fart the farthest away from the heating vents, and it's 18° out. Damn we're smart.
Get to church. Park in handicapped space since Grampa is with us, even if we forgot to bring his tag. Clown car unloads, other churchgoers look down noses at youngin's parked in a handicapped spot (side note: Episcopals are famous for being high-society stuck-up snobs - adultery is fine, but you'll rot in hell for using the salad fork during your main course!).
Get inside. Being the gentlemen we are, "ladies first" and Les leads the way, finally finding a row of pews to take over (seats 8, we got 7, close enough). Since we had to get there about a week early to ensure a good spot (what, we have to see the priest, not just hear him?) we plant it and sit quietly.
Quietly, that is, until Grampa starts snoring. Loudly. Buzz saw. Fog horn. Whatever you call it, that old man was drowning out the organ to no end. And so it begins: from here on out, it's all downhill...
Ben, Kristine, Leslie, and Winston all laugh hysterically. Try to hide it and just smirk, soon enough it's out-and-out laughter. Grampa wakes up, time to begin the service.
Start with singing. The music gene is not present in Atkins (keep in mind, Mom's an Atkins by marriage). Between the 7 people singing "Hark! The Herald Angels sing" we manage to have about 12 different keys, even inventing a few new notes. We're bad. REAL bad. Snickering sets in again on some of the new notes we discover.
Now it's time for the calisthenics. Everyone warmed up? Stand to sing, sit to listen, kneel to pray, stand to pray, kneel to pray, sit to listen, stand to sing...After about 5 of these, Grampa (Catholic by nature) gives up and sits down, entreating Dad and me to do the same; "No man has to do all that just to say 'Hi' to God!" The womenfolk (and Winston, in the family by marriage) are allowed to continue working out.
Sermon: It's by some lady who told us no less than 5 times she went to Yale Divinity school (so apparently she knows God better than a community college graduate). She also used to be a Broadway actress; therefore every word is enunciated to the point she sounds like she's talking to 2 year-olds. Sermon is about Billy, who wants to rake her lawn. Tells the story, and at the end Billy goes to his truck and drives away. WHAT THE FUCK?! What, he rode his R/C car? Finally we figure out (on our own) Billy wasn't the 8 year-old he sounded like...but up until the last two minutes you had me fooled.
Communion. Or, a royal disaster in 5 farts.
Fart #1: When it's our row's time to go, we all stand up. No, remember the part about being gentlemen? Well, that means when we leave, we're in front. All 4 of us stop in the aisle to let the womenfolk go. But, it then occurs to dad that Aunt Linda (in the lead) doesn't know where she's going. Send Leslie ahead? Nope. Go ahead himself? Nope. Tell Ben to jump in front? Well, not exactly. Shove the hell out of Ben in a desperate last-ditch attempt to put someone in the lead who knows what he's doing? Yup. I wasn't exactly expecting that shove, however...instead of beating Aunt Linda to the front (is it a race?), Ben goes flying...literally. According to Grampa, I "looked like a chicken that just discovered it had wings, and then thought it could fly." Chickens, and Ben, can't fly. Hit the floor (rug on ceramic tile, no padding), carpet burn, more laughter from the family.
Fart #2: On "big" days, the church includes stations for communion. But mom is up in the choir loft. I (in the lead with a headache and bright red spot on my temple) attempt to go up front to the choir. But I'm redirected. I try and sidestep, explaining, but if he won't let me by, no way are 7 going up front. Aw shit. Sorry Mom! (She never did get communion that night...I hope I didn't damn her to hell.)
Fart #3: returning to the pew.
Well again everything's solved, women in front, returning from communion. Oops, you return down the side aisle (about two feet wide), and again the men need to go in first. We trip, stumble, fumble, push, and finally shove our way past the females, get in first sit down...wrong pew. We need to be one forward. Oops.
Fart #4: We spread to other people.
Having finally found the right place to sit, and in the right order, we commence to kneeling and praying as is done after drinking wine. Kneeling forward, head to the back of the pew in front of me, I ponder the route to drive my car home. After a few requisite minutes kneeling, I lean back and slide down the pew. Now, I wasn't going at breakneck speed or anything, but I wasn't all that slow, either. I also forgot about the people behind me.
WHAM! Absolutely DRILLED this poor woman (about 35 years-old), right in the nose. Perfect head-butt, had I meant it. She's praying and the next thing she know she's flying backwards (hey, my head hurt, too). But I caught her right on the bridge of her nose. In the pain and shock of it, she falls backwards, knees coming off the kneeler. Landing on the HARD floor (no carpet here). Shock from the knees smacking tile sends her leaning off to the left, landing on her husband's legs, forcing him to fall backwards and, essentially, sitting on her. I'm rubbing my head, the lady and hubby are trying to become disentangled, everyone in a 5-pew radius is laughing, hard. My Aunt is crying and rocking back and forth with laughter.
Fart #5: Not-so-silent Night
So there is still hope for the service to be okay, good, and somber. At the end we always sing "Silent Night," kneeling, with the lights out and candles lit. We can recover. Everyone kneels. Sing music. First verse goes fine.
Disaster is only a moment away, however. Dad has been "kneeling" leaning backwards - knees on the kneeler, butt on the pew, leaning back. Between verses, he sits up and leans into the pew in front of us.
Oh.
Shit.
Dad ALSO just happens to have on a musical tie. It's touch-sensitive. It plays a VERY loud, electronic beeping version of Jingle Bells. And there's no way to shut it off. And again, this just happens to be between verses, so the whole church is quiet.
"BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP, BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP...."
and so it goes. Jingle Bells, as played by a tie. Loud as all hell breaking loose. By this time, the whole church knows where it's coming from; how couldn't they? It's got to be the same people that have snored, tripped, stumbled, shuffled, proven there isn't a musical bone in them, and damn-near KO'd an innocent bystander. Dad turns bright red, embarrassed but it's his own fault. Ben, Leslie, Kristine, and Aunt Linda are guffawing at this point...LOUD, raucous laughter, crying, and falling over each other. Organ stops, waiting for commotion to end...
On the recessional, the choir goes out first. Mom refuses to even look in our direction; we're apparently out of her will. Family makes a bee-line for the car, hoping we weren't recognized and wiping the tears from our eyes.
I'm so glad Christmas only comes once a year.
Peace.Christmas back home is going really well. Megan is fitting in just fine and we're all having a really good time. Weird to think I'll be shipping out to my "real" job in just 3 weeks.
But a very Merry Christmas to you all. Or a Happy Hanukah, Happy Yule, Merry Festivus, Good Kwanza, or whatever else you may be celebrating in the coming days. Take care everyone, and say a prayer for our soldiers, sailors and airmen overseas.
Semper paratus. Peace.