The last half-dozen or so newspaper Christmas parties I’ve been to have been about as fun as joint-replacement surgery, but once upon a time, you could always count on them to rock the house. Why? Because we spent our holiday season reporting, editing and slapping headlines on stories like this:
Newburgh — A Wal-Mart Santa Claus was arrested Monday for allegedly exposing himself to a 15-year-old boy and attempting to have the boy engage in oral sex with him at his home on Dec. 9, according to a City of Newburgh police press release.
Bad Santa. Bad, baaaad Santa.
My friend who passed this along added, And also in the fine city of Newburgh: The police chief is apologizing for two overzealous officers who took time out of crime-fighting to knock down a 6-foot snow penis, complete with snowballs, that was festooning a lawn in the city.
UPDATE: Actually, that story’s too good not to link, too. Doesn’t skimp on the snickers, either: The last two nights of freezing weather has made the snow too stiff to sculpt, said Sherer. There are many, many more.
Ho ho ho. Eggnog refill, please.
Actually, I have been drinking a bit of eggnog this month. I always buy a quart, use some of it to make French toast on Christmas morning and throw the rest of it out sometime in February. (Eggnog has an amazingly long shelf life.) But this year, I’ve been adding a little Myers’ rum and putting my feet up, allowing the warm glow of the season to penetrate my bones. One thing about spiked eggnog is, you never want a refill.
It has made me toy with the idea of making homemade eggnog, something I’ve never done before. I was also considering trying a buche de noel, too — what the hell, I have the time. Who doesn’t want to spend at least one December afternoon carving mushrooms out of marzipan and laboriously smudging them with faux-forest dirt made of cocoa?
These thoughts pass pretty quickly, though. I don’t think I was cut out to roll spongecake in a towel. And with my luck, I’d be halfway through the project when the salmonella poisoning from the raw eggs would kick in.
I guess having your favorite radio station ruined is a rite of adult passage. Still. All my adult life I’ve wanted to live in a city large enough to support a AAA-format radio station. Guess it was too good to last.
Why I love my NYT: The mysteries of the narwhal, explained.
I didn’t see “The 40-Year-Old Virgin.” (Other than, you know, paying attention to the John Roberts stuff. Snicker.) Now it’s out on DVD, and with 17 additional minutes of too-raunchy-for-R humor. I had no idea.