That long-ass stretch between Labour Day and Christmas, when we get one day off? Done like dinnah, and not a moment too soon.
Yesterday's blizzard meant my brother, who was coming into town for White Cowbell Oklahoma's annual Christmas debaucheryfest at Lee's Palace, had to make the trip a day early — so we watched Caddyshack and he later ate all my leftovers. (The guy weighs 130 pounds soaking wet, but he'll eat anyone under the table.) Cowbell didn't disappoint, even though they were two bandmates short of a full complement due to the inclement weather; their burlesque dancers were a little more outrageous this year (and one kept falling out of her boustier).
The main plot of this year's Cowbell Christmas was that, due to the tough financial times, Santa had to sell the rights to Christmas to, you guessed it, the Devil. The Dark Lord, naturally, has different ideas about what the holiday is about; Santa said it was about "family and sharing," but Satan viewed it as being all about "marketing and selling shit," and later opined that Christmas was "all about fucking." True to form, Santa whipped out his giant prosthetic phallus and began spraying the crowd; one of the burlesque dancers attempted to give him a handjob, but the beast was just too big. Good clean fun, really.
Mind you, it would have been more fun if I hadn't been hacking up a lung, which I've been doing since about Wednesday and continue to do until this very *cough! gasp! wheeze!* second. I don't get colds too often, but when they hit me, they hit me like a freight train. I aim to be better by the time the immortal Matt and I head up to Ottawa to take in some World Juniors hockey action, because if Matt's going to dress up as Borat for those Kazakhstan games, I want to be in top form (but not as Azamat Bagatov, and no, I won't be chasing him naked through an insurance brokers' convention).