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More Christmas Funnies

~~ 57 Elm Street, Bethlehem, PA, 11:51 pm, December 24th ~~

We're too late! It's already been here.

Mulder, I hope you know what you're doing.

Look, Scully, just like the other homes: Douglas fir, truncated,
mounted, transformed into a shrine; halls decked with boughs of
holly; stockings hung by the chimney, with care.

You really think someone's been here?

Someone ... or something.

Mulder, over here--it's a fruitcake.

Don't touch it! Those things can be lethal.

It's O.K. There's a note attached: "Gonna find out who's naughty
and nice."

It's judging them, Scully. It's making a list.

Who? What are you talking about?

Ancient mythology tells of an obese humanoid entity who could travel
at great speed in a craft powered by antlered servants. Once each
year, near the winter solstice, this creature is said to descend
from the heavens to reward its followers and punish disbelievers with jagged chunks of anthracite.

But that's legend, Mulder-a story told by parents to frighten children. Surely you don't believe it?

Something was here tonight, Scully. Check out the bite marks on
this gingerbread man. Whatever tore through this plate of cookies
was massive-and in a hurry.

It left crumbs everywhere. And look, Mulder, this milk glass has
been completely drained.

It gorged itself, Scully. It fed without remorse.

But why would they leave it milk and cookies?

Appeasement. Tonight is the Eve, and nothing can stop its wilding.

But if this thing does exist, how did it get in? The doors and
windows were locked. There's no sign of forced entry.

Unless I miss my guess, it came through the fireplace.

Wait a minute, Mulder. If you're saying some huge creature landed
on the roof and came down this chimney, you're crazy. The flue is
barely six inches wide. Nothing could get down there.

But what if it could alter its shape, move in all directions at once?

You mean, like a bowl full of jelly?

Exactly. Scully, I've never told anyone this, but when I was a
child my home was visited. I saw the creature. It had long white
shanks of fur surrounding its ruddy, misshapen head. Its bloated
torso was red and white. I'll never forget the horror. I turned
away, and when I looked back it had somehow taken on the facial
features of my father.


I know what I saw. And that night it read my mind. It brought me a
Mr. Potato Head, Scully. It knew that I wanted a Mr. Potato Head!

I'm sorry, Mulder, but you're asking me to disregard the laws of
physics. You want me to believe in some supernatural being who
soars across the skies and brings gifts to good little girls and
boys. Listen to what you're saying. Do you understand the
repercussions? If this gets out, they'll close the X-files.

Scully, listen to me: It knows when you're sleeping. It knows when
you're awake.

But we have no proof.

Last year, on this exact date, SETI radio telescopes detected bogeys in the airspace over twenty-seven states. The White House ordered a Condition Red.

But that was a meteor shower.

Officially. Two days ago, eight prized Scandinavian reindeer
vanished from the National Zoo, in Washington, DC. Nobody-not even
the zookeeper-was told about it. The government doesn't want people to know about Project Kringle. They fear that if this thing is
proved to exist the public will stop spending half its annual income
in a holiday shopping frenzy. Retail markets will collapse.
Scully, they cannot let the world believe this creature lives.
There's too much at stake. They'll do whatever it takes to ensure
another silent night.

Mulder, I--

Sh-h-h. Do you hear what I hear?

On the roof. It sounds like ... a clatter.

The truth is up there. Let's see what's the matter.

A Letter from Martha Stewart to Erma Bombeck,
and Erma's Response:

Hi Erma,

This perfectly delightful note is being sent on paper I made myself
to tell you what I have been up to.

Since it snowed last night, I got up early
and made a sled with old barn wood and a glue gun.
I hand painted it in gold leaf, got out my loom,
and made a blanket in peaches and mauves.
Then to make the sled complete,
I made a white horse to pull it, from DNA
that I had just sitting around in my craft room.

By then, it was time to start making the place mats
and napkins for my 20 breakfast guests.
I'm serving the old standard Stewart twelve-course breakfast,
but I'll let you in on a little secret: I didn't have time
to make the tables and chairs this morning, so I just
reupholstered the ones I had on hand.

Before I moved the table into the dining room,
I decided to add just a touch of the holidays.
So I repainted the room in navy
and stenciled gold stars on the ceiling.

Then, while the 8 loaves of homemade bread were rising,
I took out my faithful potter's wheel and made the dishes
(exactly the same shade of navy) to use for breakfast -
- they come out of the kiln pre-warmed!
These were of course made from Hungarian clay,
which you can get at almost any Hungarian craft store.

Well, I must run. I need to finish the buttonholes
on the dress I'm wearing for breakfast.

I'll get out the sled and drive this note to the post office
as soon as the glue dries on the envelope I'll be making.
Hope my breakfast guests don't stay too long as
I have 40,000 cranberries to string with bay leaves
before my speaking engagement at noon.

It's a good thing.

Love, Martha

P.S. When I made the ribbon for this typewriter,
I used 1/8-inch gold gauze.
I soaked the gauze in a mixture of white grapes and blackberries
which I grew, picked, and crushed last week just for fun.

Response from Erma Bombeck:

Dear Martha,

I'm writing this on the back of an old shopping list,
pay no attention to the coffee and jelly stains.
I'm 20 minutes late getting my daughter up for school,
packing a lunch with one hand, on the phone with the dog pound
(seems old Ruff needs bailing out, again!)
Burnt my hand on the curling iron when
I was trying to make those cute curly fries -
- how DO they do that???

Still can't find the scissors to cut out some snowflakes,
tried using an old disposable razor .... trashed the tablecloth.

Tried that cranberry thing -- frozen cranberries turned to mush
after I defrosted them in the microwave.
Oh, and don't use Fruity Pebbles as a substitute
in that Rice Krispie snowball recipe, unless you happen to
like a disgusting shade that resembles puke!

The smoke alarm is going off --talk to ya later.

Love, Erma


This may come as a shock to some of you,
but Santa Claus is a woman....

I hate to be the one to defy sacred myth,
but I believe he's a she.
Think about it.
Christmas is a big, organized, warm, fuzzy,
nurturing social deal, and I have a tough time believing
a guy could possibly pull it all off!

For starters, the vast majority of men don't even think about
selecting gifts until Christmas Eve. It's as if they are all frozen
in some kind of Ebenezerian Time Warp until 3 p.m. on Dec. 24th,
when they -- with amazing calm -- call other errant men
and plan for a last-minute shopping spree.

Once at the mall, they always seem surprised to find only cheesy
products, socket wrench sets, and mood rings left on the shelves.
(You might think this would send them into a fit of panic and guilt,
but my husband tells me it's an enormous relief because
it lessens the 11th hour decision-making burden.)

On this count alone, I'm convinced Santa is a woman.
Surely, if he were a man, everyone in the universe would wake up
Christmas morning to find a rotating musical Chia Pet under the tree,
still in the bag.

Another problem for a he-Santa would be getting there. First of all,
there would be no reindeer because they would all be dead, gutted and strapped on to the rear bumper of the sleigh amid wide-eyed,
desperate claims that buck season had been extended. Blitzen's rack would already be on the way to the taxidermist.

Even if the male Santa DID have reindeer, he'd still have
transportation problems because he would inevitably get lost up there in the snow and clouds and then refuse to stop and ask for directions.

Add to this the fact that there would be unavoidable delays
in the chimney, where the Bob Vila-like Santa would stop
to inspect and repoint bricks in the flue.

He would also need to check for carbon monoxide fumes in every
gas fireplace, and get under every Christmas tree that is crooked
to straighten it to a perfectly upright 90-degree angle.

Other reasons why Santa can't possibly be a man:

Men can't pack a bag.

Men would rather be dead than caught wearing red velvet.

Men would feel their masculinity is threatened...having to be seen with all those elves.

Men don't answer their mail.

Men would refuse to allow their physique to be described even in jest as anything remotely resembling a "bowlful of jelly."

Men aren't interested in stockings unless somebody's wearing them.
Having to do the Ho Ho Ho thing would seriously inhibit their ability to pick up women.

Finally, being responsible for Christmas would require a commitment.

I can buy the fact that other mythical holiday characters are

Father Time shows up once a year unshaven and looking ominous.
Definite guy.

Cupid flies around carrying weapons.
Uncle Sam is a politician who likes to point fingers.

Any one of these individuals could pass the testosterone screening test.
But not St. Nick. Not a chance.

But, I guess, as long as we have each other, good will, peace on earth, faith and Nat King Cole's version of "The Christmas Song,"
it probably makes little difference what gender Santa is.

I just wish she'd quit dressing like a guy!

From: Tennia -


T'was the night before Christmas..I just couldn't sleep.
So I hopped out of bed and downstairs I did creep.
I went to the kitchen in search of a bite.
If I filled up my stomach, perhaps I'd sleep tight.

The cupboard was empty.. the fridge, it was bare.
I searched but I couldn't find food anywhere.
I looked out the window: Streets covered with snow;
At two in the morning --just where could I go?

I spied my computer, I'll just go boot-up that.
I'll take me online for some Christmas Eve chat.
The modem connected without a delay!
In the blink of an eye, I'd be chatting away.

But -- no voice bid me "Welcome" or said: "You've got mail."
And I thought now's a bad time for my sound card to fail.
My buddy list opened with not even one name.
Is everyone sleeping? Well, I'll go play a game.

I couldn't get into Out Of Order or Slingo.
Strike A Match wouldn't work -- and neither did Bingo!!!!!!
The chat rooms were empty! I thought: Wow -- that's just great?
AOL picked a fine time for another update.

IM's weren't working. My mail wouldn't send.
I felt so alone. Couldn't find just one friend.
But wait! What's that sound? Did I just hear a chime?
There's someone else out there. Somebody's on-line!

In wonder -- I read: "Hey -- it's 3:53.
Your friends are all sleeping; that's where you should be."
"Turn off that 'puter. Take your hand off that mouse.
I have a few things to drop off at your house."

"You know I can't stop there while you're still awake.
I have schedules to keep. Come on -- Give Me A Break!"
If you really are Santa (that jolly, old elf)
there's only one present I'd wish for myself.

The folks on my buddy list. Those friends far and near.
You just gather them up and bring them right here.
In just a few hours I awoke with a start.
It was only a dream -- I sighed heavy of heart.

I walked down the stairs and there 'round my tree,
were all of the people I thought I'd never see.
We laughed and we {{{{{{{{{{hugged}}}}}}}}}} and we just had a ball.
Hmmmmmm -- maybe that wasn't a dream after all.

So listen up people, this secret I'll tell:
I've found the real Santa -- he's on A O L!!!!

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