MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!

T minus 1 day and counting ...

Christmas is only an hour away and I've already been given the greatest present that any six week old little girl could want: an Irish victory. And it isn't just shaping up to be a win. The Irish are embarassing "Hawai'i". So my Christmas wish has been granted. Thank you Santa and Jesus.

OK, down to business. Today, I'll be talking about the last of my favorite things about Christmas. Can you guess what it is? Christmas Eve mass. Lucy, you ask, what do you love so much about it? Is it the Nativity reenactment? Is it the singing of Silent Night? No, what I love is the fact that it gets mass out of the way and I don't have to go tomorrow. I get all day to play with my toys and watch TV! No mid-day interruptions for Lucy E. Perry! So while you're at 10 o'clock mass and checking your watch every five minutes, I'll be all snuggled up with my new possessions. Life is sweet.

Tonight's Christmas Eve mass was especially good because all the songs were not only sung, they were also signed. The mass must have been attended by many, many deaf people if they went to all the trouble to sign all the songs. Also, there was a woman with purple hair. I can't say for sure if she was deaf too. Probably.

Also, everyone seemed to make a big deal out of the fact that I got to play baby Jesus in the Nativity reenactment. Although I didn't have any lines, I did manage to not barf on Mary. So I guess it was a success.

Merry Christmas everyone.

T minus 2 days and counting ...

The most pointless thing about Christmas may also be my favorite: Christmas cards! Specifically, Christmas cards that are accompanied by long, detailed letters written by people I haven't spoken to in over a year in which they update me about their lives and the lives of their family and friends. I don't love these letters because I care about what these people are telling me. Nothing could be further from the truth. No, I love these letters because they showcase their authors' complete ignorance of the English language. Lately, these letters have been arriving daily and I can barely contain my excitement when the postman drops the mail off. I break out my red pen and tear into these letters, correcting grammar, punctuation, and sentence structure. Once I have thoroughly edited the letter, I give it a grade. These grades usually range from D+ to C+. I almost gave a B- to someone today, but I knocked the grade down a peg due to the author's rambling narrative.

If you are the author of one of these missives and would like to know your grade, please leave a request in the comments section below.

For those of you too shy to ask for my feedback directly, I have prepared a list of do's and don't's for next year's Christmas letter. I hope this list aids you in writing an entertaining letter that does not put me to sleep (see above).

1. Do not overuse exclamation points. One letter I reviewed used an exclamation point on 18 separate occasions. This is simply unacceptable because it dilutes the very nature of the exclamation point. If every sentences ends in one, how are you to properly convey excitement or surprise when you really need to? If you answer to that semi-rhetorical question is two exclamation points, please remove me from your mailing list.


2. Context, context, context. One of the things you all seem to be struggling with this year is understanding that the world does not revolve around you. You may know who Mike and Carla are, but don't assume that I do. In fact, assume that I don't. This is such an easy fix that it really bothers me to even bring it up. Instead of writing 'Mike and Carla came by to see me in June and it was great to see that the operation didn't affect Mike - he was the same old Mike we all know and love!!!!', why not just insert a simple parenthetical like so: 'Mike and Carla (my old parole officer and his wife) ....'? Stop being so lazy.


3. Affect vs. Effect. This never fails to amaze me. Adults don't seem to know the difference between affect and effect. Affect is a verb. Effect is a noun. Your Christmas letter was so terrible, it had the effect of making me wretch. I was so deeply affected by your Christmas letter that I wretched. See? Easy.


4. Paragraphs. Paragraphs have a topic sentence, a body, and a conclusion. Also, please note that a full page of 10 point typeface with no paragraph breaks increases the likelihood that your letter's recipients will throw it away without reading it by at least 75%.


5. Rambling. Rambling, by the way, is a bad thing. Oftentimes, your letters make me feel like I am reading the prattlings of an old woman in a dingy nursing home who spends her days waiting to die. Now, I know this usually isn't the case, so why give me reason to think it? I've given this problem a lot of thought and I can only give you this recommendation: after you've written your letter, set it aside for a week or so. Then go back to it and reread every sentence. After each sentence, ask your self whether: (i) the sentence makes you sound like an insane person; (ii) you are just talking to hear yourself talk (so to speak); and (iii) the sentences would be of any interest to the reasonable person. If the answer to any of these questions is no, delete the sentence.

I hope this helps. Do better next year.

T minus 3 days and counting ...

What can I say about today's Christmas topic that others haven't already said?  I know that Christmas is about celebrating Jesus' birth, but no right-minded person could say that God didn't also intend for us to gorge ourselves on college football during this most holy of times.  Bowl season is truly a glorious event that has become synonymous with the holidays.  For me, nothing beats kicking back and watching all the great match-ups on my sickeningly large flatscreen.  This year, I'm particularly excited about ND-Hawaii, PSU-USC, and Oklahoma-Florida.  But the crown jewel of this bowl season is no doubt the fact that Michigan was ineligible to play in any of these games.  Not even the Humanitarian Bowl!  There is a word for the joy I experience as I watch the Michigan program crumble and its fanbase revolt.  That word is schadenfreude.  As you are aware (or as you would be aware if you frequented certain ND-related message boards), the word derives from the German Schaden (meaning damage or harm) and Freude (meaning joy).  And it is a sweet, sweet feeling.  I really recommend you try it.

So when your family tries to sucker you into doing things together like visiting Aunt Mabel or Uncle Roy over the next few weeks, make sure you remind them what the Christmas season is truly about--watching football.  And if that means you have to go down into the basement to sit on a plastic lawn chair and watch the games by yourself on a 13 inch black and white tv as you consume bag after bag of off-brand potato chips and Faygo, so be it. Your family can wait.  Bowl season is worth it, trust me.  

I leave you with two images that will get any red-blooded American fired up for this bowl season. 

T minus 4 days and counting ...

We're getting closer and I'm getting more excited by the minute.  Today, we'll be discussing another of my favorite things about Christmas: Gingerbread Men!

I'm not sure what makes Gingerbread Men so great.  It is likely the ginger.  Or maybe the frosting.  Whatever it is, those little suckers are tasty.  I know that a lot of people think it funny to bite the head off of a Gingerbread Man (in fact, I bet you thought that's where this blog entry was going).  Not me though.  I like to start with the feet and work upwards.  That way, the Gingerbread Man is forced to watch me consume him until the bitter, bitter end.

Now, Gingerbread Men are really just the tip of the iceberg here.  You can also make Gingerbread Houses or even Gingerbread villages if you are so inclined.  In a perfect world, I would wake up tomorrow to find a whole Gingerbread village in my kitchen.  It would be populated by Gingerbread Men, Gingerbread Women, and Gingerbread Dogs.  I would pause and admire the craftsmanship and artistry that went into creating such a wondrous display.  Then, I would lay waste to it.  Gingerbread air raid sirens would blare and the Gingerbread Village would try to mount some meager defense to my onslaught, but it would be to no avail. Their gumdrop cannons would have no effect on me and they would be powerless to save their village and themselves.  All that would remain would be a stray pile of crumbs here and a dollop of uneaten frosting there.

Of course, all of this presupposes that someone would take the time to bake me a Gingerbread Village.  Mom?  Are you listening?

T minus 5 days and counting ....

Maybe you can guess what today's blog entry is about. Wait. Never mind. I'm giving you entirely too much credit. I'll just go ahead and spell it out for you.

Today, I will be discussing Christmas stockings. My favorite thing about Christmas stockings is that they allow Santa to leave more presents when he runs out of room under the tree. When I first heard about Christmas stockings, I thought the idea was pure genius. In fact, I was so impressed, I went and did some research regarding the genesis of Christmas stockings.

And you'll be surprised to learn that I traced their origins all the way back to 19th century Netherlands and a little boy named Sven Bbjornstrand who would hang his only pair of socks by the fireplace to dry after long days spent logging in Vlissingen. Every day, Sven would come home with a bundle of wood to heat the house and dry his socks by the warmth of the fire. Sven was an introspective boy and desired to leave his life of logging behind so he could study cartography in Amsterdam. His family, however, was poor and could not even afford firewood, let alone the necessary cartography books to get Sven started on his mapmaking career. So a logging life it would be for little Sven. The only real pleasure he had in life was waking up on cold Vlissingen mornings and taking his warm socks off of the mantle above the fireplace. One frigid morning (December 25, of course) Sven woke up and was horrified to find his beloved socks stuffed with large hardcover books about cartography. The books were so large that they stretched his socks to their tearing point. When little Sven tried to put the socks on, they just fell down. With no socks to keep his feet warm, he wouldn't be able to go out logging that day (or any day thereafter). No logging meant no money and no free firewood, which was essential to the Bbjornstrands. Sven's home would have been very, very cold that day had Santa not left the cartography books, with which the Bbjornstrands made a roaring fire.

None of my research indicates what happened to the poor Bbjornstrands after that particular fire died down. They had no money and Sven, their only source of income, simply could not work sock-less. I can only assume they froze to death.

So, in honor of Sven Bbjornstrand, we hang stockings on mantles to this day. Of course, the tradition has evolved a bit. The stockings are much larger (to make room for more presents) and we don't normally burn the contents for warmth.

That's it for today, but I'll be back tomorrow with another thing I love about Christmas! Until then, take a long look at your stockings and give silent thanks to Sven Bbjornstrand for his wonderful contribution to this, the most glorious of holidays.

T minus 6 days and counting ...

Things are moving along nicely. There are presents under the tree. I'm wearing socks that look like Rudolph. Every second is bringing me closer to Christmas. And with another day comes another post. To recap for those of you who are easily confused by the simplest of things, I will be making a post every day between now and Christmas. Each day, I'll tell you one thing I love about Christmas and why I love it so much. Yesterday's post was about Die Hard. Today's is about snowmen!

In Jewish folklore, a snowman is an animated being created entirely from inanimate matter. Having a snowman was seen as the ultimate symbol of wisdom and holiness. In many depictions, snowmen are perfectly obedient. So, for example, if I wanted my snowman to break dance, all I would need to do is ask him. However, in other stories, they are enormously uncooperative, and their creators often have to resort to trickery to deactivate them. So break dancing would probably be out of the question with that type of snowman.

Unfortunately, there hasn't been a lot of snow so far, so I haven't gotten a chance to build a snowman yet. But as soon as we get our first good snow (hopefully before Christmas), I'll be out that door and building my snowman faster than you can say: "Lucy! Stop! You don't have a coat on! And you're only six weeks old!" Nothing says Christmas like a snowman in the front yard and I will stop at nothing to make this Christmas perfect! In fact, even though I haven't built him yet, I've already named my snowman. He shall be called Dave.

Come to think of it, I may build an entire army of snowmen if we get enough snow. Think of all the break dancing that would be accomplished!

T minus 7 days and counting ...

I can barely contain myself (see right). Christmas is only one week away! I've gotten no counter-proposal from the North Pole, so I must assume that my 2008 Christmas Demands are being met! I can't wait to play with my toys, especially my shiny new Husqvarna chainsaw!

But that's not what I'm here to talk to you about today. No, I have a much greater purpose. With only seven days left before the big day, I thought it would be appropriate to make a post every afternoon until December 25. Each post will describe something I love about Christmas and why I love it so much. This, my friends, is my gift to you.

Today, I want to talk about Die Hard, my favorite Christmas movie of all time. This movie warms my heart every time I see it. And, more importantly, it launched a whole subgenre of action movies that made the late 80s and early 90s worth living in. But I'm not here to lecture you about action movies. I'm here to tell you why Die Hard always gets me in the Christmas mood.

Now I have a machine gun ... ho ho ho. Now, if I was trapped in a skyscraper with a bunch of European terrorists, I probably wouldn't have the presence of mind to remind them about the Christmas season. But John McClane, being the lover of the season that he is, shows his remarkable Christmas spirit when he not only scrawls a Christmas-themed message on a dispatched terrorist, but also takes the time to put a Santa cap on his head. I can only assume that his game plan was to overwhelm Hans Gruber and his band of European terrorists with Christmas cheer. Of course, the mistake John McClane made was assuming that Commies celebrate Christmas (they don't).

Christmas in Hollis by Run DMC. You can keep your Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and your Frosty the Snowman. Nothing gets me in the Christmas spirit like Run DMC's Christmas masterpiece Christmas in Hollis. This song is played at the beginning of Die Hard when John McClane is in the limo with Argyle. For my money, you can't find a more appropriate song for the season. For your convenience, I have reproduced the lyrics:

Run:

It was December 24th on Hollis Ave in the dark

When I seen a man chilling with his dog in the park

I approached very slowly with my heart full of fear

Looked at his dog, oh my God, an ill reindeer

But then I was illin because the man had a beard

And a bag full of goodies, 12 o'clock had neared

So I turned my head a second and the man had gone

But he left his driver's wallet smack dead on the lawn

I picked the wallet up then I took a pause

Took out the license and it cold said "Santa Claus"

A million dollars in it, cold hundreds of G's

Enough to buy a boat and matching car with ease

But I'd never steal from Santa, cause that ain't right

So I'm going home to mail it back to him that night

But when I got home I bugged, cause under the tree

Was a letter from Santa and all the dough was for me

D.M.C. :

It's Christmas time in Hollis Queens

Mom's cooking chicken and collard greens

Rice and stuffing, macaroni and cheese

And Santa put gifts under Christmas trees

Decorate the house with lights at night

Snow's on the ground, snow white so bright

In the fireplace is the yule log

Beneath the mistle toe as we drink egg nog

The rhymes you hear are the rhymes of Darryl's

But each and every year we bust Chrsitmas carrols

(Christmas melodies)

Run-D.M.C. :

Rhymes so loud and proud you hear it

It's Christmas time and we got the spirit

Jack Frost chillin, the orchas out?

And that's what Christmas is all about

The time is now, the place is here

And the whole wide world is filled with cheer

D.M.C. :

My name's D.M.C. with the mic in my hand

And I'm chilling and coolin just like a snowman

So open your eyes, lend us an ear

We want to say

Run-D.M.C. :

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

So that's today's selection. I encourage you all to watch Die Hard between now and Christmas day. You won't be sorry. If you'd rather not, I still encourage you to watch the below video - if this doesn't put you in the spirit of the season, I'm not sure what will:

SPOILER!!!!!

Weekly Q & A

It's that time of the week again! This week's mailbag has some interesting questions, so let's get to it.

I heard rumors that during December Jimmy Clausen transforms from a troll to an elf to keep in the Christmas spirit, and after a pitiful season young kids will still like him, is this true? Anonymous, Providence, Rhode Island

Anonymous, you've been had. Jimmy Clausen (who looks suspiciously like an emu - see below) will maintain his troll status regardless of the time of year. And he will be universally reviled by the youth of America. But I do have good news for you. Dayne Crist is gaining ground in the QB battle at Notre Dame and it would not surprise me if he got some serious playing time in the spring Blue/Gold game. Plus I hear that Crist can really nail the crossing pattern.

Lucy, why did I come to visit you today if you were planning on sleeping the whole time? Lyndsey C., Mishawaka, Indiana.

Lyndsey, what do you expect? I'm five weeks old. Frankly, you're lucky I didn't barf on you. But I do want to thank you for making the trip. Lord knows it's a tough one. If I had a nickel for every run-in I had with the Kokomo police department! Luckily, those clowns couldn't catch a cold.

Lucy, what is your favorite band and why? Oswald C., Juneau, Alaska.

Oswald, this is an easy one. The Drive By Truckers by a mile. They defy classification -- some would call what they play southern rock, others would call it Americana, and others might simply label it alternative country. Call it what you will. But for my money, they can't be beat. I recommend you start with Southern Rock Opera and then go from there.

Lucy, I can't believe how cute you are! Can you please post more pictures soon? Hannah V., Knoxville, Tennessee

Hannah, of course I'll keep posting pictures. Today's selection (below) is from my black and white phase. I went through a 2 day period a week back where I refused to be photographed in color. Looking back, I think I would label this my 'artsy' phase. I drank a lot of espresso back then too.

LAGOS, NIGERIA.

DEAR LUCY,

CONFIDENTIAL BUSINESS PROPOSAL

HAVING CONSULTED WITH MY COLLEAGUES AND BASED ON THE INFORMATION GATHERED FROM THE NIGERIAN CHAMBERS OF COMMERCE AND INDUSTRY, I HAVE THE PRIVILEGE TO REQUEST FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE TO TRANSFER THE SUM OF $47,500,000.00 (FORTY SEVEN MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS) INTO YOUR ACCOUNTS. THE ABOVE SUM RESULTED FROM AN OVER-INVOICED CONTRACT, EXECUTED COMMISSIONED AND PAID FOR ABOUT FIVE YEARS (5) AGO BY A FOREIGN CONTRACTOR. THIS ACTION WAS HOWEVER INTENTIONAL AND SINCE THEN THE FUND HAS BEEN IN A SUSPENSE ACCOUNT AT THE CENTRAL BANK OF NIGERIA APEX BANK.

WE ARE NOW READY TO TRANSFER THE FUND OVERSEAS AND THAT IS WHERE YOU COME IN. IT IS IMPORTANT TO INFORM YOU THAT AS CIVIL SERVANTS, WE ARE FORBIDDEN TO OPERATE A FOREIGN ACCOUNT; THAT IS WHY WE REQUIRE YOUR ASSISTANCE. THE TOTAL SUM WILL BE SHARED AS FOLLOWS: 70% FOR US, 25% FOR YOU AND 5% FOR LOCAL AND INTERNATIONAL EXPENSES INCIDENT TO THE TRANSFER.

THE TRANSFER IS RISK FREE ON BOTH SIDES. I AM AN ACCOUNTANT WITH THE NIGERIAN NATIONAL PETROLEUM CORPORATION (NNPC). IF YOU FIND THIS PROPOSAL ACCEPTABLE, WE SHALL REQUIRE THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENTS:

(A) YOUR BANKER'S NAME, TELEPHONE, ACCOUNT AND FAX NUMBERS.

(B) YOUR PRIVATE TELEPHONE AND FAX NUMBERS -- FOR CONFIDENTIALITY AND EASY COMMUNICATION.

(C) YOUR LETTER-HEADED PAPER STAMPED AND SIGNED.

ALTERNATIVELY WE WILL FURNISH YOU WITH THE TEXT OF WHAT TO TYPE INTO YOUR LETTER-HEADED PAPER, ALONG WITH A BREAKDOWN EXPLAINING, COMPREHENSIVELY WHAT WE REQUIRE OF YOU. THE BUSINESS WILL TAKE US THIRTY (30) WORKING DAYS TO ACCOMPLISH.

PLEASE REPLY URGENTLY.

BEST REGARDS,

ABAGA EWEDAFE

Abaga, you wacky Nigerians can never seem to get your money out of Nigeria! What's with that?!

Well, that's it for this week's mailbag. Thanks for all the questions. Keep them coming! Especially you, Abaga!

The Sheraton "Hawai'i" Bowl?????

Notre Dame finishes its regular season with a record of 6-6 and it gets rewarded with a trip to Hawaii (or "Hawai'i", as the leftist media likes to call it)? I haven't been around for a very long time, so the ways of the world are somewhat mysterious to me. To compensate, I look to Notre Dame football for life lessons and here is what I've learned so far:

1. I don't need to work or even be remotely competent at anything to become a millionaire (lesson learned from Lionel Tyrone Willingham).


2. It's OK to blame my problems on youth and inexperience (lesson learned from Charlie Weis).


3. I can underachieve in the classroom and on the field and then be given a trip to Honolulu (lesson learned from 2008 Notre Dame Football Team).

What I really don't understand is why Notre Dame even agreed to play "Hawai'i". Everyone knows that Polynesians are really good at football. Frankly, I don't see any scenario in which ND pulls this one off. Unless, of course, Santa Claus intervenes. So I turn my head up to you, Fat Man.

That's right. I'm looking to cut a deal with you, Santa. I understand that if I promise to be good next year, then you'll grant my Christmas wish. Well, I promise to be good. In exchange, I ask that you use your magic to transform Jimmy Clausen into a serviceable quarterback or grant Charlie Weis the knowledge needed to develop some semblance of a running game or poison all the pineapples at the "Hawai'i" Warriors team luau the night before. I don't care how you do it, Santa. Please, just let the Irish win.

But I'm warning you, St. Nick. Don't doublecross me. Just ask Lenny Grabowski.

In your face, rest of the neighborhood!

Our house is decorated and I must say that it is easily the best house in the whole neighborhood. What sets it apart from the others is its simple elegance.  As much as I would love a giant animatronic Santa Claus that speaks in a robotic monotone anytime someone comes near it, I really feel like our decorations capture the true spirit of the season in a way that robots just can't seem to replicate (yet).  And who is responsible for masterminding this perfection?  My dad, of course. 

Right now, in homes all across the neighborhood, wives are berating their husbands for their failure to measure up to the standards set by my dad.  

"Why can't you be more like Lou Perry?" they ask in their shrill, harpy voices. 

The husbands look down at their own feet and whisper: "I don't know."

Also, I would like to point out the conspicuous lack of presents beneath our tree.  I fully expect Santa et al. to have this problem taken care of by December 25.  If he doesn't, I'm going to have to seriously question how my tax dollars are being spent.

Even if Tubby Claus doesn't pull through, at least I'll have the best decorated house in the neighborhood. Do you hear that, guy-who-hangs-out-in-his-garage-even-though-it-is-the-dead-of-winter? Our decorations put yours to shame!  How about you, guy-who's-forty-but-still-wears-his-baseball-caps-backwards?  How cool do you feel after you have stared unblinking into the perfect storm of christmas lights, decorations, and awesomeness that is our home? Pretty crummy, I bet.  And you, guy-who's-always-challenging-neighbors-to-a-"foot-race"? You may be fast, but you are otherwise untalented!  Behold my reaction to your Christmas spirit:

  

Christmas Q & A

Since so many of you seem so interested in everything I do, I've decided to add a new feature to the blog: a weekly Q & A. Because it is the first week of December, I thought it appropriate to field a few Christmas-related questions. So here we go:

Dear Lucy - Two weeks ago, you posted your Christmas 'Demands'. What, if anything, do you plan on doing for OTHERS this Christmas? Steve B., Dubuque, Iowa

Steve, I'll ignore the self-righteous tone of your question and get to the meat of my response:

1. Teach a crazy hobo the true meaning of Christmas through song and dance;
2. Enlarge my carbon footprint;
3. Continue my crusade to rid the world of hippies;
4. Allow the undeserving to hold me.

Lucy - OMG!!!!11 I luv^ you're bloggh!!!!@ Who do u l1ke bettr? Miley cyris or Highscool MuSicla?> Ashley A., San Bernardino, California

Ashley, you sicken me. Learn to type. And what does this have to do with Christmas, you mongoloid?

Dear Lucy - Do you believe in Santa Claus? Because some bullies in my school told me that Santa Claus died in Abu Ghraib. Jimmy K., Athens, Georgia.

Jimmy - I absolutely believe in Santa Claus. I heard the Abu Ghraib rumor too and I'm here to tell you that it's hogwash. No man-made prison can hold this guy:

Santa is safe and sound in the North Pole where he sits atop his throne fashioned from the bones of the naughty and judges us.

Well folks, that's it for this week's Q & A. Keep the questions coming. And remember: anyone can post questions in the comments section of this blog entry. If I deem you worthy of my time, perhaps I will respond.

Happy Thanksgiving!

You are all on notice

First off, I would like to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart for the many gifts you have given me. Life would have been really tough without your generosity - I wouldn't have a crib, I wouldn't have bedroom furniture, I wouldn't have clothes, I wouldn't have diapers, I wouldn't have a swing, and I wouldn't have a stroller. The list goes on. So thank you, everyone.

BUT.

I received a package in the mail today. It was from my Aunt Mary Beth and Uncle Don, and my cousins Lauren and Michael. Presents are pretty old hat by now, but I could tell that this was something special. So I screamed until my dad opened it.

What did they send me, you ask? Well, see for yourself:

That's right. They sent me a dinosaur! A GIANT FREAKING DINOSAUR!!! I'm trying to decide on a name as we speak. Right now, it's a toss-up between Rageclaw, Beastgore, and Bailey II. Regardless of my dinosaur's name, I am sure we will enjoy many an evening trampling unsuspecting toddlers and burning down their jungle gyms. I applaud the creativity displayed by Uncle Don and Aunt Mary Beth and I hope that you all take note. If you view gift-giving as contest like I do, Uncle Don and Aunt Mary Beth hold an enormous lead on the rest of you. But it's nothing you can't make up come Christmas time.

I am very excited about Thanksgiving

As I understand it, this holiday consists of an entire day of eating and watching football. Count me in! I know I've complained before about how I'm not allowed to have solid food. But surely an exception will be made for this, the most wonderful of second tier holidays. After all, I spent a good portion of last night helping dad make the turkey brine. In fact, I was the one who suggested that he throw a little Scotch in the mixture for good measure.

You're going to let me eat some of the turkey, right? Right?

Dad? Mom?

*crickets chirping*

Oh come on! How can you say no to this face?

OK. You want to play hardball. I have news for the both of you. YOU ARE IN FOR A LONG NIGHT. If you don't agree to give me some turkey tomorrow, I will make sure that I'm up every 15 minutes tonight. And I won't make any of those cute whimpers that I've been limiting myself to lately. I will scream so loud that CPS will be knocking down your door. I will channel Linda Blair and projectile vomit all over my room and anyone who sets foot in it. I can make the next 36 hours of your lives miserable if I want to.

But I don't have to.

You can stop it. Just give me some turkey and no one will get hurt. You hear me? Just. Give. Me. Some. Turkey.

The state of Notre Dame Football

I have to apologize to all of you. I meant to share my thoughts about the state of Notre Dame Football on Saturday night. But I just couldn't. Especially with my parents stuffing a bottle in my face every time I cried. They just didn't get it. I wasn't crying because I was hungry. I was crying because I felt like this:

I won't bore you with an argument about how you can trace the current crisis to the incompetency of Fr. Edward Malloy and his 'aspirational peer' nonsense or how the hiring of Ty Willingham set the program back a decade. I won't parse the arguments for and against the firing of Charlie Weis. That's been done on other websites ad nauseam. I will, however, tell you about my proposed solution and how I arrived at it.

Saturday was a rough day for me. I slept. I ate. I slept some more. I ate some more. Then, Dad woke me up to watch the Notre Dame/Syracuse atrocity at 2:30. Then I slept. When I woke up at around midnight, I didn't shriek at my parents like I normally do. Instead, I put on my thinking face (see below) and decided to do some real problem solving.

And guess what? Within minutes, I came up with a solution to the current football crisis we face. Jack Swarbrick better listen up. In fact, maybe he should hire me. I'm sure he can come up with some clever way to avoid all those child labor laws. Anyway, here it is:

Have the goverment bail the team out! Under this proposal, the government would "purchase" all of the team's losses to get those losses off of Notre Dame's books. The resulting undefeated season would result in a berth in the BCS title game where Notre Dame would surely lose to Oklahoma or Alabama. The government would purchase this loss as well, so Notre Dame would not only receive a multi-million dollar payday as a result of playing in a BCS bowl, they would also have their 12th national championship. These funds, coupled with the profit from the government's purchase of the losses, would be re-invested in the Notre Dame football team and provide the stimulus needed for enhanced on-field production next season. Of course, the government wouldn't just buy the losses -- it would take a stake in Notre Dame football. The government would establish a watchdog program that prevents Charlie Weis from (i) going for it on 4th and 9 from his own 30 yard line; (ii) running anything out of the Wildcat formation; (iii) running fake screens; (iv) allowing Jimmy Clausen to throw ill-advised passes; and (v) name-dropping. It would also force him to (i) hire a real offensive coordinator; (ii) develop a run game; (iii) play James Aldridge and Robert Hughes; and (iv) teach his team to field on-sides kicks.

Now I know what you're thinking. You probably have two big questions. Well, I've got two big answers.

1. What is the government going to do with all of the losses it purchases from Notre Dame?

We can't really quantify the value of these losses. It is completely possible that other teams might place a premium on exchanging their own losses for Notre Dame's losses. Michigan for example. I'm sure that Michigan would gladly pay a good deal of cash to exchange its loss to Toledo for Notre Dame's loss to, say, Pittsburgh.

2. Why do I, as a taxpayer, want to bail out an institution that has largely created its own problems?

Get out of my country, you hippy.

My Christmas Demands

I know, I know. It's not even Thanksgiving yet. But it's cold outside and when I'm all bundled up (see right), I can't help but let my thoughts drift to Christmas and all the great stuff that goes along with it: candy canes, snowmen, financial distress, stockings, and giant inflatable reindeer on motorcycles. Of course, the most important thing about Christmas is gifts. Being that I'm so young, there is an awful lot that I don't own. I plan on using Christmas to remedy that problem. In fact, I've already penned a demand letter to that fat man and his midget slaves in the North Pole. I figure the earlier I send it, the earlier the midgets can get to work on my stuff. So, without further adieu, I present to you my 2008 Christmas Demands:

• Toys! And none of this educational crap that my parents are trying to push on me. I know my ABCs, I know my multiplication tables. I don't need an anthropomorphic cow to tell me that D comes before E! I need an anthropomorphic cow that dances and sings Styx songs when I press a button. I need something that breaks easily so mom and dad will have to run out and buy me a replacement every few weeks. You get the picture?
• A chainsaw. Look, I know a zombie apocalypse is probably not very likely and chance are slim to none that I'll ever get any real use out of this baby. But hey, maybe.
• Neck muscles. I am sick of my head flopping all around everytime someone picks me up. First of all, you are supposed to SUPPORT MY HEAD when you pick me up. I am not to be tossed about like some rag doll. Really, you people sicken me.
• Solid food. I would kill for a burger or a rack of ribs right now. This milk stuff is fine, but I need a real meal -- I need to eat something that used to have a face soon or I'm going to go crazy!

My bookie better pay up!

Since I've been born, people have been giving me all manner of gifts. Stuffed animals, toys, clothes, books. You name it, I got it. And what did I do with all of this stuff? I did what any red-blooded American would do. I pawned it all and put the cash on the Steelers to beat the Chargers last weekend. This was a no-brainer, mostly because Philip Rivers (pictured above) is the Chargers' QB and he is worthless. As I'm sure you've heard by now, the final score of the game was 11-10 and the line was -4 in favor of Pittsburgh. The Steelers won but didn't cover. Normally, I'd just go along my merry way and find some other stuff to pawn for next week's games, but this is a unique situation. You see, with less than five seconds left in the game, the Chargers made a desperate attempt for a last second TD and Troy Polamalu, being the Polynesian god that he is, intercepted a lateral and returned it for a touchdown. That would have made the score 17-10. The Steelers would have covered and I would have been PAID. But then, in what the NFL has since called a 'mistake', the refs overturned the play and the final score was 11-10.

And now my bookie won't pay up. He says that rules are rules and just keeps wishing me better luck next time. Well, I got news for you, Lenny. There ain't gonna be a next time unless you pay up. You hear me, you brain-dead schmuck?! YOU. WILL. PAY. ME. If you don't, then guess what? You'll be seeing this face everywhere you go:

I'm going to be on you like spit-up on my burping cloth. You won't be able to go anywhere in this town without seeing me in your rear-view mirror. I will haunt you. Do you hear me? You will not get a moment's rest until you PAY ME what is MINE. Oh, you think I'm kidding? Go ahead outside and look at your car.

That's right. I torched your ride. Don't test me, Lenny. It's not worth it.

Notre Dame vs. Navy: My Thoughts

Yesterday, Notre Dame beat Navy 27-21. I know it was a win, but I'm still not happy. Clausen is playing like garbage and our offensive line is best described as sieve-like. I meant to write about this yesterday, but I just didn't think I could reduce my thoughts to a tangible medium of expression. My many attempts resulted in multiple pieces that could be published on ESPN.com, but none were even close to blog-worthy. And then it hit me! Maybe what I was struggling to capture with the written word was better suited to be a stream-of-consciousness performance piece. And, unsurprisingly, I was right. So, without further exposition, here is my unadulterated reaction to yesterday's Notre Dame/Navy game:

LOBSTER ATTACK!!!!!!!!!

Tonight was my first Friday night at home. I was looking forward to a nice relaxing evening. Maybe watch a little Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader, maybe play a little Jenga. But then lobsters showed up at our house! They were ostensibly for Uncle Rick's birthday. Before I could figure out what was going on, they escaped and wreaked havoc in our kitchen.

And the worst part? Like braying fools, my family stood there laughing the whole time while these disgusting creatures attacked my doggy. It isn't funny, Uncle Rick. Seriously, what are these people thinking? We're not running a branch of Japanese Bug Fights out of our kitchen (that I'm aware of).

With Bailey so frightened that she wouldn't come out from under the table, I knew it was time to take matters into my own hands. Someone had to take care of business and that someone was me. It was a long and brutal battle, but my cat-like reflexes and my encyclopedic knowledge of Dragon Style Kung Fu (which focuses mainly on powerful, short range attacks, as is common among southern Chinese styles of kung fu, and features leg work characterized by a zig-zag motion that mimics the imagined movement of the mythical Chinese dragon) gave me a decided advantage over the lobsters. Of course, they had the numbers advantage. But it's like Kellen Winslow says, I'm a soldier. But unlike Kellen Winslow, I actually can back up my talk (see below):

On Cormac McCarthy

Occasionally, I'll use this blog to trumpet stuff I like. I may review my favorite bottle or my favorite stuffed animal or books or I may even review my parents' performance thus far (right now, they're earning a solid B+). So my first topic of discussion is my favorite writer -- Cormac McCarthy. Long before that sow Oprah Winfrey (above) made him a household name, I was telling everyone I knew that they needed to read a book, any book, by Cormac McCarthy. Why, you might ask, would a baby enjoy Cormac McCarthy? After all, there are no pictures, no pop-ups, and it seems that McCarthy doesn't particularly care for babies (see Blood Meridian and The Road). You'd be correct to point all of these things out. But since I'm not really allowed to watch TV (except for football), I have to find my entertainment elsewhere. I'll be the first to admit he's difficult. It took me three tries before I could finish Blood Meridian, but the effort was worth it. Right now, I'm just finishing up Cities of the Plain, the last book in the Border Trilogy. After that, I may take a little break from his novels and maybe check out some of the new stuff people bought me when I was born. First up is Quiet Loud by Leslie Patricelli. I don't know much about this book, but the title is definitely intriguing. Don't bother searching the New York Times archives -- it doesn't look like Michiko Kakutani has reviewed it yet. I'll be sure to post my own review once I finish it.

In other news, my parents dressed me like this yesterday:

Although it was pretty comfortable and I fell asleep almost immediately, I'm not going to forget how ridiculous I looked. If they keep pulling these kinds of stunts, I just might end up sticking them in one of those crooked nursing homes when the time is right. You know, the ones where the orderlies steal your stuff.

I cannot be stopped

So I was supposed to go home on Saturday afternoon.  I was excited because that meant no more nurses poking and prodding at me and no more apothecaries applying their leeches to me. Instead, the "doctor" told me I had "jaundice" and decided to keep me an extra night.  Of course, I saw through this ploy immediately.  They were attempting to isolate and study me so they could then replicate me (for military purposes, I assume).  Before I knew it, they had blindfolded me and imprisoned me in a blue cage (see above).  Of course, no cage can hold me, especially when I have this guy on my side:

I distracted the doctors with my Christopher Walken impression:

while my dad took out the security guards and wired the place to blow.

It was tight, but I made my escape with only seconds to spare:

So now I'm home and as happy as can be.  I didn't realize we'd have such a big television or that my bed would be so comfortable.  And the best thing about home?  Nary a hippy in sight.

Meeting the family

Now, I'm not one to brag. But I'm pretty awesome. I was born at 3:03 PM today and I was way better than any of the other babies in the nursery. They all cried like banshees and I stared at them like the fools they were. I wondered what the heck these idiots were crying about. Then it hit me. They're jealous of how great my family is and ashamed of how much their family stinks! I guess I would cry too if I was in their position. So to rub it in their little mewling faces even more, here's how my first hour or so of life went.

First, I was born.

Things were off to a good start. I mastered breathing in no time and I didn't cry at all. After that, I met Mom. I was really impressed with her and I didn't think anyone would top her in terms of poise, intelligence, and charisma.

But then I met dad. And I glimpsed the very face of perfection. It was like God decided to combine the good looks of Paul Newman and Tom Brady with the wit of Jonathan Swift and Kurt Vonnegut. Not to mention the pure cool of Mike "Stroker Ace" Cooley.

Then we hung out as family for a minute before I met some of the grandparents.

So I guess I understand why the other babies were crying. Their families were terrible compared to mine. If I had to sum this all up in a series of two pictures, the first being the other babies' families and the second being mine, I guess this is as good a representation as any:

vs.