A Christmas tradition that had taken a backseat to getting smashed on NOG for me was enjoying the Christmas Stocking. My Ma was a champion at stuffing the thing with really great stuff back when I was a wee little Robot. And I ain't talkin' about "fillers" like oranges and such. Everything was precious and well thought out.
This past Xmas the small circle of Fam and Friends and I resurrected the tradition in Grand Style! We went as far as decorating our own homemade stockings (the 'blanks' deftly crafted by a crafty Delp) by cutting up bits of felt and glueing them on. This Robot, looking for inspiration thought of the things he liked most ... and came up w/ Nachos and Margaritas! Both rendered in felt quite well, if I do say so myownself.
So on Xmas morning I dissassemble the bloated stocking and much to my delight I find little booze bottles and cigarettes, a false moustache (and spirit gum), some lottery tickets, a Daily Racing Form, a bottle of dishwashing liquid, a pad of Post-Its and a small round pin - some folks call them buttons - that said in a crazy typeface: COFFEE SLUT.
I affixed the COFFEE SLUT button to my fleecy, warm sweatshirt and proudly wore it, as I am, indeed, a COFFEE SLUT. There the button remains and whenever I don the fleecy, warm sweatshirt I remember the joy of the Xmas stocking.
FAST FORWARD to last Saturday when the grrrrrrrl and I are on our way to a weekend in Yosemite and we stop in a grocery store. I'm again wearing the fleecy, warm sweatshirt and it indeed still has the COFFEE SLUT button on it but I don't really see it anymore because it's always there. All at once, in line to check out, I see the COFFEE SLUT button and laugh quietly to myself. Then the nice lady starts ringing up the beer, beef jerky, dry-roasted peanuts and, without looking up, says, "So ... you're a COFFEE SLUT." I said, "heh, okay." She said, "Your button. It says COFFEE SLUT." I looked down at the button and said, "Oh! That’s, uh, that’s uh, my piece of flair. I'm, you know, required to wear a certain amount of flair. ... uh ... I didn’t actually choose this. I, uh, I just grabbed a button and, uh, I don’t even know what it says! Y’know, I don’t really care. I don’t really like talking about my flair."
The nice lady looked me with sad eyes and said, "okay, fine. Sorry." I paid and left.
Tonight - Bar 821 (by request)
You never know who will show up there.
bye-ee!
This past Xmas the small circle of Fam and Friends and I resurrected the tradition in Grand Style! We went as far as decorating our own homemade stockings (the 'blanks' deftly crafted by a crafty Delp) by cutting up bits of felt and glueing them on. This Robot, looking for inspiration thought of the things he liked most ... and came up w/ Nachos and Margaritas! Both rendered in felt quite well, if I do say so myownself.
So on Xmas morning I dissassemble the bloated stocking and much to my delight I find little booze bottles and cigarettes, a false moustache (and spirit gum), some lottery tickets, a Daily Racing Form, a bottle of dishwashing liquid, a pad of Post-Its and a small round pin - some folks call them buttons - that said in a crazy typeface: COFFEE SLUT.
I affixed the COFFEE SLUT button to my fleecy, warm sweatshirt and proudly wore it, as I am, indeed, a COFFEE SLUT. There the button remains and whenever I don the fleecy, warm sweatshirt I remember the joy of the Xmas stocking.
FAST FORWARD to last Saturday when the grrrrrrrl and I are on our way to a weekend in Yosemite and we stop in a grocery store. I'm again wearing the fleecy, warm sweatshirt and it indeed still has the COFFEE SLUT button on it but I don't really see it anymore because it's always there. All at once, in line to check out, I see the COFFEE SLUT button and laugh quietly to myself. Then the nice lady starts ringing up the beer, beef jerky, dry-roasted peanuts and, without looking up, says, "So ... you're a COFFEE SLUT." I said, "heh, okay." She said, "Your button. It says COFFEE SLUT." I looked down at the button and said, "Oh! That’s, uh, that’s uh, my piece of flair. I'm, you know, required to wear a certain amount of flair. ... uh ... I didn’t actually choose this. I, uh, I just grabbed a button and, uh, I don’t even know what it says! Y’know, I don’t really care. I don’t really like talking about my flair."
The nice lady looked me with sad eyes and said, "okay, fine. Sorry." I paid and left.
Tonight - Bar 821 (by request)
You never know who will show up there.
whrr ... clik!
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