|I Wrote This on Facebook First
||[Dec. 24th, 2008|01:13 am]
|||||Irish Rovers - Away in a Manger||]|
This is more of a New Year's post, but it's an important matter so I figured I'd put it out early:
It occurred to me recently that when one feels the need to be needlessly festive by adding the phrase last two digits of the current year to the end of something (as I myself am wont to do), it is lucky when the year has a nice ring to it. We've lucked out for most of our lives: ninety-something worked out quite pleasantly. "two thousand" was a no brainer. Somewhere along the line "two thousand one, two etc" drifted into "03" which still worked out well. (And yes, I know we're all thinking 'Boner Jams 03' right now. Or if "we" weren't, and I was... we (meaning you, collectively) certainly are now.)
08 was... great. and it rhymed.
But soon we will be forced to utter the dreaded phrase, "Fire Drill... 10." It's just so lackluster. Oh-Ten, maybe. (No offense to anyone in the graduating class of 2010.) We'll have to wait until maybe 2021 for it to sound all right again. "Naked Party 17!" It's just kind of weird.
And while we have an entire year of goodness ahead of us in 2009, 2008 just has such a ring to it. Great in 2008! So, my friends, brethren, kinfolk all, I say we heartily embrace, in this remaining week, the phrase "08." Let it ring true in our hearts. Let it end any proclaimation or remote exclaimation we make... 08.
(I just noticed it'll be fine in 2009. That makes me feel a little better.)
We also have to do this in the Fine 09, but that's a given.
And now for the Christmas Portion:
Whichever one of the Three Kings who decided to give Myrrh (the bitter perfume, AKA oil used to annoint the dead... er, maybe not that exact purpose but it is associated with death, for those of you who don't know (I was going to say "non gentiles" but I bet tons of non gentiles know what that is and then I'd just look ignorant).... anyway, whichever one decided to give Myrrh to a newborn was kind of an asshole.
"Hey, congratulations on the birth of your son, the newborn king, the savior of a bunch of people. Virgin birth, humble birth in a barn, magical star, angels all around, night of miracles, peace on earth for one night, nice job. But remember he's gonna be forced to die a horrible, painful, drawn-out death prematurely. Don't forget that, okay? Oh, I see you're looking adoringly at your baby on this holiest of nights. Here, here's some DEATH OIL to remind you of that. 'Cause your kid's gonna DIE. I know he's an infant now and this is like the most perfect night ever, but he will SUFFER. Oh, and you'll SEE it. Just remember. Happy birthday, kid."