Santa Comes Back to Earth (Sigh)

Santa Comes Back to Earth (Sigh)

In many respects, this post, “Santa Comes Back to Earth,” is a postscript to an earlier one: “Yes, There Is A Santa Claus Archetype: I’ve Seen Him, Been Him,” which can be reviewed here.

Naughty-Nice-2A
The Good Old Days, last week . . .

It’s a reminder of the truth of the old Latin adage, “sic cito transit gloria mundi,” or “Thus quickly passes worldly glory.”

And sure enough: Christmas is past. The sleigh is in the shop for maintenance (dodging those D@#*!! drones was a pain), and Santa is “off the radar” for another year,  sunk back into stereotypical obscurity, readjusting to incognito status.

Santa-Archetype-Shmarchetype-12-28-2015-SM
The Monday After . . .

But there’s one important footnote. This, er,  de-transformation (aka disguise) was achieved by the masterful fingers of that Michael Jordan of the scissors, Mr. Bryan Brandon of Platinum Cuts, in Durham NC. Take a bow, Bryan . . .

Bryan-Brandon-and-Ex-Santa-12-28-2015So things are back to (ab)normal. But as Chicago Cubs fans always say in the fall, “Wait Til Next Year!”

And then, there’s always blogging to pass the time.

In the meantime, if you didn’t get that much-longed for puppy this Christmas, here is some post-holiday doggerel for consolation, borrowed from an anonymous online poet:

Twas The Month After Christmas

Twas the month after Christmas and all through the house
Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.

The cookies I’d nibbled, the eggnog I’d taste,
All the holiday parties had gone to my waist.

When I got on the scales there arose such a number!
When I walked to the store (less a walk than a lumber).

I’d remember the marvelous meals I’d prepared;
The gravies and sauces the bird nicely rared,

The cider and rum balls, the bread and the cheese
And the way I’d never said, “No thank you, please.”

So–away with the last of the sour cream dip,
Get rid of the fruitcake, every cracker and chip

Every last bit of food that I like must be banished
Till all the additional ounces have vanished.

I won’t have a cookie–not even a lick.
I’ll want only to chew on a long celery stick.

I won’t have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie,
I’ll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.

I’m hungry, I’m lonesome, and life is a bore —
But isn’t that what January is for?

Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.
Happy New Year to all and to all a good diet!

– Anonymous

[NOTE that it did NOT mention bacon . . . .]

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