Coal In The Stocking, Coal In The Furnace, And Smoke From The Chimney

Nov 15, 2020 Diary entry: My young life was like a story out of Dickens, we were shiny black ravens who flocked among the chimney smoke lanes, we lined up along the telephone wire high above the town, and we spoke of the things we had done, and our dreams which were larger than the world itself, our hearts were all aflutter with anticipation for when that jolly man would appear, the half drunken coal lorry driver, which meant we would have coal for the furnace, and we would be sleeping warm and snug once more in our little flannel pajamas in our little beds, and the harsh ugly world would be left out on the cold frozen doorstep like a bad dog that had peed on the rug again, people today don’t know what it is like, we counted coal in our Christmas stocking as a blessing because there was coal in the coal bin, others consider coal in the stocking as a curse, well, one man’s curse is another man’s blessing, it’s been that way all throughout time, if you would only count your curses as blessings, you would never be cursed again, if a person steps on your apple, make applesauce, if your kid comes home and tells you he ran over the dog while backing the car into the driveway, count it as a blessing, you have fertilizer for the rosebushes, if you just dropped LSD and made plans for a relaxing evening at home listening to music and opening that special bottle of wine, and your wife tells you that she invited the stupid couple next door over for bridge, and they don’t smoke or drink because they say it harms the planet, well, some things will forever be a curse, anyway, Santa Claus, I don’t buy into the whole Santa business, last year, I don’t know who it was, Santa, or one of his animals, but someone crapped in my fireplace, and I’ll be sitting up all Christmas Eve night this year, and if I hear Santa walking around on my roof, I’m gonna fill his rear end with bird shot, he’ll be able to fly back up north without using his sled, you’ll hear the guy on the radio say that Santa was sighted on radar flying back to his Siberian North Pole office to sink his sore red rear end in a snowbank, if I catch that chimney sweeping pest, I’ll hang him outside the window of the stone tower with a wilted mistletoe tied to his trousers which the rats will kiss under before they gnaw his stinking carcass, anyway, to all you shiny black ravens who are now older and gray, and you can’t get up on the telephone wire anymore, I commiserate, there is no smoke from the chimney these days, well, I send my best blessings out to those whom I bless, and my best curses out to the rest of you, you all know who you are, especially you widow Amundson, why do you make such a big deal over a little cat crap in your mailbox, and how do you know the empty beer cans in your yard belong to me, there must be millions of people who drink that kind of beer, and can I please have my golf balls back, I saw the man cleaning your gutters last week, anyway, might I say to everyone this Christmas season, if we don’t hang out our stockings expecting anything, we won’t be disappointed, I send each one of you, whoever you are, and wherever you are, love, good cheer, and sweet candy cane wishes for a better year to come, shalawam…


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