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New Christmas Carols For These Times

There was a time when having a dark sense of humor just made you seem negative, and a little weird. I think a dark sense of humor has, in recent years, become a necessary coping superpower. 


"Zuckerberg Is Doubling Down" 

(To the tune of "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town")

You better log out, you better comply

better bail out, I'm telling you why—

Zuckerberg is not backing down...

He's checking your history and it's nice

to sell it to Amazon for a price

Zuckerberg is doubling down

You might think that it's creepin'

Your IP address to take

He knows better than hackers could

all your pics of that beefcake

Oh! You could do without that Jeff Bezos guy

He and the Zuck don't need private eyes

Your priv'cy is gettin' shook down

"Awake In The White House"

(To the tune of "Away In A Manger")

Awake in the White House

No need to feel dread

The president (Jesus!)

won't worry his head

The stars from the movies

Can say what they say

The president (Jesus!!)

Is tweeting away

The blowhard is blowing

No spell-check he makes

As belly laughs seize us

He airs bellyaches

I love it when (Jesus!!!)

Crap flows from this guy

Please let me preside

When they declassify

Be near me, if (Jesus!!!!)

They let this putz stay

I'll hold forth forever

With wry play-by-play

Bless all the brown children

Encaged in despair

But don't judge me, Heaven,

I sent Trumpy Bears

"Frosty the Puddle

(To the tune of "Frosty the Snowman")

Frosty the Puddle

Melted down into a hole

Thanks to climate change, well now we all know

You can blame a lot on coal

Frosty the Puddle

Couldn't keep that heat at bay

So then Frosty cried when

He realized

He'd be mist by Christmas Day

His melting down was graphic

As his carrot hit the ground

We knew that he was almost dead

By the awful gurgling sound

Frosty the Puddle

Was as wet as he could be

And his dank bouquet

Kept the kids away

Plus his fate they could foresee

Frosty the Puddle

Tried to make his thoughts array

But his smarts had run

Like the setting sun

And his limbs had gone astray

So vast was the spillage

Drinking up, a thirsty band

Of some birds, a bear and a little hare

Then kersplash! a moving van

He looked around as the sun beat down

On that forlorn blacktop

Then a basset hound jumped into him—

a perfect belly flop!

Frosty the Puddle

Saw his doom as plain as day

He'd have waved goodbye

But his wet was dry

Raise a glass to him today

Things too hard to toss

There are two things people are unable to bring themselves to throw away—old keys and National Geographic magazines. Well, three. Books. Most books. At my library, people donate to our used book store all manner of unsaleable gems. Computer textbooks from 1985, religious pamphlets, microwave oven manuals. This comes from the ancient human impulse which goes all the way back to when a caveman first set a meatless elk skeleton at a crossroads "just in case somebody can use it." 

Humans collect keys. They pile up in empty peanut cans in the garage or gather on key-rings hung in the kitchen cupboard. Why? BECAUSE THEY "GO TO" SOMETHING. How will I ever unlock the things these keys go to if I throw them away? Yet once the collection gets past five keys, no human on Earth has ever had the will to methodically take them around to items with keyholes and test them. We intend to. Some day, when there's time. We intend to see the Northern Lights some day too.

National Geographic magazines are the most beautifully produced things humans have managed to achieve thus far, plus they are ringed with a golden border. You can't just throw something ringed with a golden border in the trash! Each issue contains fascinating, surprising insights about our world which, before Facebook, could only be found within. And the pictures! They are art and science in one. A horde of very bright people put together each issue. And every human on Earth bought one, even in outer Mongolia, and then stored it in his garage or tool yurt. 

Once we have learned, from a golden-bordered copy, all there is to learn about, say, the radioactive reindeer of Chernobyl, we store it, and store the next issue and the next, until we have what is known, in scientific terms, as a "sh*t-ton." Then, in a rare fit of non-procrastination, we take this in boxes to the library, where maybe somebody can use them. People who have never seen them can use them, absolutely. These people do not exist on Earth.  

Everyone who has ever lived has dropped off three cases of pristine, golden-bordered beauties at the library, but the library already has bound copies, collected by year, going back to 1934. So that leaves the used book store, but they receive roughly four sh*t-tons every week, so they become your surrogate. They do the dirty deed. They toss them in the trash for you. You don't have to witness the discarding of a fellow human's hard intellectual efforts. I am not judging. I absolve you. It is a difficult thing to see. A lot of people, from the slaughterhouse to Congress, do things we need done but don't want to behold.

Come January 1st, a new show on Netflix debuts, starring Marie Kondo. She is the author of the wild best-seller from a few years ago, "The Life-Changing Magic Of Tidying Up." Her clutter-reducing philosophy is basically hey, if it's not a functional item, a pot or steam iron or bath towel, and it doesn't bring you joy, toss it. Seriously. Joy. That is a high bar to get over. Kondo would toss your clump of old keys so fast. Sayonara, radioactive reindeer!

In the preview, she appears at people's doors like a tiny Japanese Mary Poppins, and commences kicking clutter's ass. I will be all over that show. What's more fun than watching other people make hard, mature decisions without making them yourself? Is "clutter porn" a term? There's a lot to unpack here. I wonder where I left those keys.

Letters to Santa in this political climate / exclusive this week

My column this week, letters to Santa which reveal the toxic political climate we are living in, is available only to my Patreon subscribers. Also a vintage column about the things, in middle age, that I have in common with my dog Skipper, and sound recordings of my columns from the last month. Thanks again for your support.

George