F R O M T H E A R C H I V E S
A FULL STOCKING'S WORTH OF HOLIDAY-THEMED MATERIAL.
- - - -
Poems That Were Considered and Rejected Before 'Twas the Night Before Christmas Was Established as "the Official American Christmas Poem."
BY FRANK GANNON
- - - -
HO HO
BY ALLEN GINSBERG
Wear your red suit and your boots
And that repulsive white beard
With the hardened saliva of sick nights in countless tenements,
That same red suit you bought at Woolworth's
With the money you made
From the flesh of the elves.
From their blood and their sweat
And their flesh that would scream if it had a voice,
Their tiny cries are not heard
Because of the jingle bells.
And your twisted sick appetite
That feeds on the young with
Firm buttocks.
And that "elf look."
Damn you, you big fat man in a red suit.
Goddamn you, you grotesque fat man with
Inflamed loins.
Your sickness is the sickness
Of the flesh merchant,
The Industrial man who lives
Above the elves.
Oh, damn you,
And your sick enchained animals with antlers!
Reindeer Girl
BY SYLVIA PLATH
On this month they call December,
On this street of filth,
A girl with her latest suitor
Is walking through the filthy snow
Piled on the sidewalks by the still-eyed men
Who call her "slut"
From their wretched street-sweeper machines.
And she hears the sound
Of Jack Frost nipping at her nose
And the man next to her
Drunkenly stumbles along
Thinking of a television set
That he saw in a window surrounded by fake snow
And the falsehood she has walked through
Her whole reindeer life, daddy.
Oh, Curse this idiot and his television.
Oh, father!
Curse your life with your driveway!
And your brick barbeque pit
And your American wet saliva
That sticks to your disgusting American face
With Perry Como in it
With a green face
Because they cannot get
The "tone" control right.
The Jingle Bells
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Hear the jingle bells!
Hear them jingle!
How they jingle!
How they jangle!
And see the madman in the red suit!
Who is coming!
He sees you!
With wide wild eyes.
He wants you!
He sees you when you sleep!
He knows what mad dances
The reindeer make!
How they twirl and touch their antlers!
How their blood is stirred
By the madman they call Claus!
How merry they are
As they drink your blood and say,
"Merry Christmas to all,
And to all a good night!"
You are their daughter!
My love!
- - - -
Jewish Holidays
for Hipsters.
BY MICHAEL SCHULMAN
- - - -
iPurim
Yom Hipper
Pabstover
Ironukkah
- - - -
The Gutenberg Christmas Catalogue, 1608.
BY SIGMUND STERN
- - - -
No matter whether we be pilgrims or lepers, we all love a good read. And now that those endless months of finding and pickling fruit for the Christmas pudding have paid off, why not treat yourself—or your master—to a new book from Gutenberg House? Our books have drawn raves from kings, everymen, and Joseph the Raver alike.
Tremble with choice at the wide range of works in our complete catalogue. Behold!
- - - -
The Alchemist
BY ANONYMOUS
Our all-time bestseller! Seek your treasure. Package includes 8-ounce ball of lead with which to get started.
- - - -
The World Is Flat
BY ANONYMOUS
An excerpt: "As I recline on a plank made in East Lancaster, writing with a quill made in North-East Lancaster, tracing these very words with ink from my neighbour's cat, it hits me: We are all part of the same amazing porridge."
Recommended for readers who enjoyed Anonymous's Guns, Germs, and Steel: A Strategick Proposal. Enjoy a 10 percent discount if you preorder the author's forthcoming sequel, I Insist, the World Really Is Flat.
- - - -
The Da Vinci Code
BY ANONYMOUS
Might the mysterious shapes Leonardo da Vinci drew inside the breech-cloth areas of his human figures be more than just hilarious squiggles?
- - - -
Eatf, Shootf, and Leavef
BY ANONYMOUS
Expreff yourfelf clearly in newly ftandardised Englifh. Now available in convenient whaleboneback!
- - - -
Gutenberg Presents the Holy Bible
AS TOLD TO ANONYMOUS
(A Gutenberg House Exclusive)
Unexpurgated text includes words too spicy for King James. Sure to become an essential item on every shelf, along with the yarn-ball and Warren's Encyclopaedia of Tights. Deluxe bicentennial edition includes a foreword by the Lord Himself.
- - - -
The South Bruges Diet
BY ANONYMOUS
Anxious to add precious starch to your diet? Five-plus recipes inside will have you stewing up a maelstrom. Coming soon: translations for non-Latin speakers.
- - - -
The 104-Hour Workweek
BY ANONYMOUS
What if we told you that you could go carping in the Thames, win a jig contest in Switzerland, and toss dwarves in Vienna, all while your turnips grow rapidly at home? Before you brand us for false prophecy, read this book. It will teach you how to, among other things:
- Outsource your life, using the magic of peasants
- Make hereditary power work for you
- Retire at 15
- - - -
A Time to Kill
BY ANONYMOUS
An excerpt: "A shot rang out sometime around autumn. Some weeks later, a man lay dying."
While a town full of witnesses blames Lord Hugh the Murderer, brilliant young lawyer-barber Mitch Becket thinks a certain serf might have more interesting information. If only Mitch could get his hands on the right torture device ...
- - - -
Dulcimer for Morons
BY ANONYMOUS
Master the old trapezoid with lessons so simple even John of Hanover could follow them. Also available: Be a Guitar Angel.
- - - -
Our deepest gratitude and submission to you, Your Worship, for reading our catalogue. Be sure to check back with us next decade for more titles!
- - - -
Items From the Neiman Marcus 2002 Christmas Book.
BY CLAIRE ZULKEY
- - - -
His and Hers custom-made action figures: $7,500
Burberry reversible dog jacket: $195
Neiman Marcus "exclusive" leather, gold, and pewter Scrabble/Monopoly set (also available in Men's Furnishings): $4,000
25 Hours Flying Time in Gulfstream IV-SP: $299,000
Henry Dunay "North Pole" jeweled figurine: $140,000
Neiman Marcus limited-edition 2004 Cadillac XLR: $85,000
Watch winder: $450
Timothy Richards bookends and limited-edition autobiographies signed by Jack Nicklaus: $2,5000
Gourmet tamales (set of 18): $70
Slot machine: $2,350
14 oz. Tin of Eleni's fashion cookies: $65
Cameo portraiting service: $5,000
Hinckley T29 R Yacht: $258,500
Neiman Marcus Burberry London taxi: $589,000
His and Hers chocolate mummies: $65
Roberto Cavalli sequined paisley jeans: $416
- - - -
After Drinking Too Many Martinis at Lunch, Old Man Potter, Unwisely Acting as His Own Attorney, Delivers His Closing Remarks to a Bedford Falls Jury.
BY G.F. SNELL III
- - - -
Members of the jury, let me be clear: I didn't steal the money.
I direct your attention to the front row of the courtroom. Take a good long look, my fellow citizens. Why, I'm surprised the inebriated old fool remembered to stagger his way into this fine courthouse this morning. Are you going to take the drunken babblings of this doddering old stooge, Uncle Billy, as gospel? And isn't that what it comes down to? My word, as one of the most respected businessmen in Bedford Falls, against that of a notorious dipsomaniac? A man—mind you—who consorts with a pet squirrel!
Yes, yes, I know you heard testimony from Bert the Cop that he found the Bailey Building & Loan money locked in my desk. But I can look each and every one of you in the eye and tell you that when I tucked that newspaper into my drawer, I had no idea that it contained the Building & Loan's cash deposits.
How could I? Quite frankly, I was emotionally distraught after the verbal assault Uncle Billy leveled at me as he barreled into my bank and battered me about the face with the very same newspaper. He compared me—me, the head of the draft board—to the Nazis and the Japs! I was speechless! Shocked and chagrined!
So when I rolled into my office and tossed that old newspaper in my desk drawer, I had no idea it contained any money. I was as surprised as Bert the Cop when he pulled all that cash out from my desk. But not as surprised as when he violently grabbed me by the lapels and dragged me from my wheelchair to manacle my hands behind my back! Me! A cripple and a respected business leader—arrested like a common thief!
It was mortifying! Mortifying!
And do I really need to address the deceptions put forth by George Bailey? And under oath, mind you! I have it under good authority that George Bailey actually profited from this whole experience when the discontented, lazy rabble he calls friends and customers emptied out their piggy banks for him. That braying spoiled brat Sam Wainwright actually cabled Bailey $25,000! Harrumph!
I remain confounded by the loyalty this town gives to George Bailey, a frustrated, angry, and ungrateful young man. George Bailey hates Bedford Falls and has been trying to leave it ever since he was a boy. Why, he's been heard to say—and I quote—that he wants to "shake the dust off this crummy little town and see the world!" This is how much he despises our beautiful little metropolis, a town I'm proud to call my home.
Let me tell you about George Bailey. He's an arrogant, rude man who once sat in my office, smoking my expensive cigars, and called me "a scurvy little spider." This from a man who stole his best friend's girl! A man who used to regularly vandalize the home he now lives in! A man who consorts with people of low moral character!
Think about the social circle George Bailey travels in. How about Mr. Martini? A garlic eater and owner of a disreputable gin mill on the edge of town! Nick the bartender? A violent ruffian with a police record! And let's talk about Mr. Sam Wainwright, shall we? A philanderer who lives in New York City! And how about old man Gower? Why, nothing more than a drunk and a child beater!
But worst of all may be Violet Bick! An allegedly happily married man like George Bailey is often in the company of this woman of loose moral character! A man who once shouted throughout the town how he wanted to take her skinny-dipping! A woman to whom George Bailey is often seen giving large amounts of cash. She's nothing more than a barroom whore!
Now, now, fair citizens, don't gasp at me! Do you think George Bailey is the only man Violet hits up for money? That she hasn't come crawling into my office on her hands and knees begging for my assistance? I may have two useless appendages, but my middle one works fine, thank you very much!
What? What? Don't look at me like that! You think your hero—your Mr. Building & Loan—isn't getting down on that action? Just because I give the little blond a tap every now and then doesn't make me a bad man. You think it's easy being the town cripple? Huh? Putting up with all your shit? But I got my revenge! Oh, yes. I own this burg! You're like my ... my cattle! Bigger bitches than Violet!
Pottersville! That's what we should call this shit hole! Pottersville!
Unhand me, bailiff! Judge! Take your goddamn hands off me! Please! I didn't do it! I'm innocent!
Wonderful life, my ass!
- - - -
Jesus Christ Decides He Doesn't Want to Celebrate His Birthday This Year.
BY MATT BANNISH
- - - -
Seriously, guys, no party this year. I know you've all been looking forward to it, but I really just don't want to celebrate this one. It's a little trite and, frankly, over the top. Take a look at past celebrations; I feel overindulgent. Just not my style.
And I'm not just saying this with the expectation that you'll throw a party anyway. This is no false front. This is straight talk, so listen up: I don't want a party. I just want to have a relaxed, quiet night. Maybe I'll go out to eat. I know just the place; I think I've earned it.
Don't even think about arranging the T.G.I. Friday's wait staff to sing "Happy Birthday." I'd maintain a polite smile for the duration of their song, but you better believe I'd be seriously pissed. I wouldn't even eat the free dessert. I'd let the ice cream melt and it would all go to waste. So don't do it.
And no gifts. I always end up with shit I don't want. Like frankincense. And myrrh. I ask for the receipt and then suddenly I'm the bad guy. Like it matters, anyway—what am I supposed to do with store credit at the Spice Emporium?
Don't be like that. I'm not ungrateful. I appreciate the gesture; I just don't need it, all right? Save your money.
Then there's the matter of guests. Birthday parties draw people I've meticulously extracted from my social circle. It's always the same: Word gets out and invitations miraculously appear on the doorsteps of every irritating prick I've ever encountered. I end up avoiding people at my own party. Next thing you know, I'm cornered by Brandon Schwartz, tap-dancing my way out of 65 unreturned calls.
And I certainly don't have the patience to put up with another drunk guy this year. Allow me to paint you the inevitable picture: He'll show up an hour early and carry on with general daftness, ignoring—or, rather, embracing—the fact that it is 1 o'clock p.m. He'll then stumble around the sunroom and vomit on my throw pillows. I'm looking at you, Cameron.
Finally, there better be no surprise party. You know that about me, I hate surprises. I'm sorry Susan had to find that out the hard way, but maybe if she hadn't been hiding in my closet she'd still have all her teeth.
Well, now, I hope I've made myself clear. If I so much as see one party favor on the day of December 25, I swear to God I'll lose it.
- - - -
Red dot denotes content that is new today.
Black dot denotes newish content.
