With angelic host proclaim
Holy moly, is this the last Sunday before Christmas? Do I have to wish you Merry Christmas now and leave trinkets in your stocking? Maybe give you a big, sloppy kiss under the mistletoe? Stagger to your front door to drop off some stupid rum balls (hee) or store-bought fruit cake? Join you for a drunken rendition of Deck the Halls until your dog starts howling? Double dip my Ruffle chip in your French dip? Boy, that sounds dirty. Let’s just forget we ever had this talk. Merry Christmas, my friend.

Gimme back my rum balls
I just did some calculating and deduced that there’s one more Sunday before Christmas, so I take back everything I just said.

I blame Funk and Wagnalls
I’m not saying there’s a holiday conspiracy afoot, but I SWEAR they keep changing the proper spelling of “mistletoe.” Under threat of perjury, I will testify that last year when I went on and on and on about Christmas stuff, the official spelling was “misteltoe.” Of course, I HAVE been hitting the nog pretty hard lately. And by “lately” I mean every Christmas season since 1980.

Congratulations, Carl Sheline
The mayor is back. I’m somewhat relieved about this news because man, I don’t feel like breaking in a whole new mayor. As a reporter, sort of, you come to rely on the occasional comment or a tidbit of information from His Majesty, and Mr. Sheline has always been very accessible. Should a new guy get in there, I’d have to establish a relationship, update my contacts list, maybe send a gift basket over to City Hall … So you can see how this worked out very well for me. Thank you for your votes.

Turns out these boots ain’t made for walking
So last week, I rambled on about how I’d gotten some new Wolverines to replace my old ones. Well, just forget about that, mister, because after spending a couple days in the new clodhoppers, I decided that I couldn’t betray my old boots this way so I sent the new boots back. I only hope my old boots will forgive me. It would serve me right if I were to develop a corn or something.

Corny
Actually, maybe a corn on my foot would be a good thing. You can’t beat a corn, I’m told, for forecasting the weather. I could be one of those guys who goes around saying, around the pipe clamped between his teeth, “Must be gonna rain. M’corn’s hurtin’.” And seriously, folks. Doesn’t it seem like I’m destined to become that guy sooner than later?

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