You May As Well Laugh, 'Cause Crying's No Use

The combination of lousy winter weather (rain and cold here in Northern Virginia, snow and ice up north), the tanking economy, and the pressures of the season are enough to drive even a strong man or woman to his (or her) knees. Since I exorcised my inner humbug yesterday, I thought you might want something a bit more light-hearted this morning. Here are a couple of Christmas ya-ha's for you:

Number 1...

Winter in Russia is brutal - just ask Napoleon and Hitler. This makes it very important to Russians to get timely and accurate weather forecasts, and in the history of that land there has never been a weatherman as good as the immortal Rudolf Pinsk. Year after year, Mr Pinsk churned out spot-on forecasts that were the envy of the meteorological prognostication community and the delight of happy Russians who could confidently plan their activities with sure knowledge of the coming weather. When he finally retired after many years of faithful service both to the Former Soviet Union and the Russian Federation, President Medvedev presented him the nation's highest award, and the assembled crowd cheered and applauded as he read the citation: "Rudolf the Red Knows Rain, Dear."

Number 2...The true story behind the tradition of the little angel on the top of the Christmas tree...

It was a terrible pre-Christmas season at the North Pole, and Santa was a nervous wreck. Mrs Santa had a towering case of PMS, and was stalking the workshops in a hormone-fueled rage. Toy production was weeks behind schedule because of a bitter labor dispute in the workshop and a work slowdown by the Longshoreelves Union that had shipments of Chinese toy components stuck on ships. The reindeer's fodder supplier had delivered a partially moldy load of hay that sickened the entire team, and the reindeer were flying around and defecating uncontrollably all over everything. Santa's financial advisor had just told him his retirement funds had all been invested with Bernard Madoff, and as he reviewed his ledgers to assess the damage, the nib on his pen broke and spread a puddle of ink across the page. Every line on his phone was ringing, the elves' shop steward wanted to see him, and Mrs Santa was demanding to know why he was spending time with that cute elf in shipping instead of her. As he sat at his desk with his head in his hands, there was a sudden flash of light and there in the middle of his office stood a little angel holding a beautifully-decorated Christmas tree that twinkled with lights and shone with glorious ornaments. The little angel looked at Santa, her bright eyes shining with love, and asked, "Hey, Santa...where would you like me to put this tree?"

Number 3...

The Scholastic Scribe, Serena Joy, and Hale McKay already know what linguists and grammarians everywhere know - Santa's elves aren't really elves. They're subordinate Clauses.

Okay, that's enough punishment for today. It looks like it's going to be a pretty light week at work...I'll be on vacation from Wednesday through Friday, and today the only things on my calendar are a meeting I'm actually looking forward to (gasp!) and lunch with one of our closest friends who is retiring after many years of distinguished service at the Department of Agriculture. Then, of course, there's tomorrow...when I can look forward to standing in line with a bazillion of my closest friends at the Honeybaked Ham store in the annual quest for Christmas dinner. Sigh.

Hope you'll have a good and Grinchless week, too.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo