The kids and I get to London last night just in time to catch an early dinner and fall asleep. The kids, being used to Hawaiian Time (GMT -10) were up at 3 this morning. We went to see Father Christmas at a well-known London department store, and by the time we got to him at 10:30, I was already set to call it a day. The result was the following exchange:
Santa: And who's that there? (pointing to me)
Joshua: That's my dad.
Santa: And what does he want for Christmas?
Me: Oh, just a little peace and quiet.
Santa (Laughing): Well, I can't fucking guarantee that one, mate!
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(This post first appeared on December 23, 2009, but has been reproduced, edited, and improved for 2011.)
Tis the season of Santa Claus, and my neighborhood is full of these awful blow up Santa dioramas. The grinch in me hopes that some other grinch comes along with a sharp scissors and pokes a hole in all this inflatable lawn plastic.
David Ng at The World's Fair asks what kind of scientist Santa Claus might be.
089:32:50 Mattingly: Apollo 8, Houston. [No answer.]
089:33:38 Mattingly: Apollo 8, Houston.
089:34:16 Lovell: Houston, Apollo 8, over.
That's awesome. Don't you just love it when Santa swears? I think all childrens' fictional characters should do that.
I hope you get your gift wish this year. But I know I'm not getting much of that. Too many people to visit and not enough money left. As someone who just got out of university a year ago, I'm still finding it shocking that, once you have a well-paying job, people actually expect you to buy them stuff. And stuff is expensive.
I just want to point out that, on the old blog, you censored me because I dropped an f-bomb. Cut out the whole danged post.
And here you are, letting Santa cuss. For SHAME. Shame! Shame!
I think I'm allowed to use whatever words I want again. After all, what's the worst I could do? Sound like Santa Claus? There are worse fates in this world.