The VP Who Stole Christmas

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man.

Took an ambien last night, so did not experience my typical "jingle jangle morning."

Arose at 6:15 a.m. to award myself one silence-filled hour...have you heard the noise noise noise? It's not coming from those Whos over in Whoville, but rather, from the site of my demolished garage, which is now a shell in various hurricane-challenging stages of reconstruction.

At approximately 7:15 a.m., a local biker gang conceals its true colors (more or less--apparently some people feel naked when devoid of a filthy bandana), assumes the identity of a foul-mouthed, yet fun-loving construction crew, and arrives at my mild-mannered abode.

Where did Bruce Wayne turn when the batcave needed repair?

I haven't experienced this sort of throbbing headache since my monthly (no, not that one, you sexist) high school orthodontic visit.

Imagine sitting in the passenger seat of the family car, feeling exactly like the dog does when he's being driven to the vet while your mom lectures you about how expensive this soon to be excruciatingly painful procedure is and how you are so very lucky to be able to wear braces while you wish, most earnestly, that you had the dog's hind end-licking ability because it might stave off the inevitable dental torture.

Oh, how awful it was to sit in the waiting room with those same old mags, waiting for "Susan" to call your name, thus prompting the long, gut-wrenching walk down that short, dark hallway.

Still, my orthodontist liked me. He once asked me, after using the force of his entire body weight to increase the tension on metal bands assigned to erase a dozen fulfilling years of thumbsucking, if I thought my braces were tight enough.

"Oh, they're about as tight as my hands are going to be around your throat." I casually replied.

Dr. Hunszinger (emphasis on the "Hun") laughed so hard he nearly knocked over his ghoulish plaster mouth mold collection, which he prominently displayed in order to announce to the world the original buck and snaggle-toothed state in which he'd found his thankless patients who, once he'd finished with them, would be perfectly qualified to become Miss Americas or used car salesmen.

I know "Attila" liked me because he sent me Christmas cards. He only sent cards to "in crowd" patients whom he liked, thus providing an early lesson regarding the burdens of popularity.

"Attila's" Christmas cards, unlike the baby-Jesus-bedecked numbers we received from our brothers and sisters at Flairfield Baptist Church were, well, a tad sadistic.

My favorite Yuletide greeting (honestly, I swear) featured a small, braces festooned fish. Inside the card the nondescript aquatic schoolster blossomed into a festive great white shark with sinister snags and a killer smile.

You know, I think that card contained a subliminal message because ever since I received it, I've wanted to attend law school.

Meanwhile, summer's dog days are humping the fun out of life in humid, old Williamsburg.

Still, it must be better than an incarcerated existence in St. Elizabeth's, since John F. Hinckley Jr. petitioned for and received the right to unlimited parental visits here in the 'Burg.

Luckily, the judge's decision regarding Jodie Foster's biggest fan came early enough for Tom Hanks to think twice before casting little Dakota Fanning in his upcoming John Adams movie, due to begin filming sometime in January, unless the paunchy producer devours too much Christmas candy, and falls into the sort of sugar-induced, cavity ridden coma Dr. H. always warned us about before Easter, Halloween, and twenty-five December.

Word on DoG St. is that Paul Giamatti will portray our portly second president, whom history records as never having set foot in Williamsburg (Hollywood's accuracy rate never ceases to impress).

Our similarly statistically-challenged neighbor "Ken", encouraged by the apparent success of his Fourth of July festivities, has decided to mount a Labor Day celebration certain to include as much political commentary and macho manmeat as friends and flies can consume in one patriotic afternoon.

Pardon me if you will, but I'd like to pause here and extend a brief LD tribute in honor of VP Dick Cheney's amazing 20 percent approval rating. You may recognize the following lyrics usually applied to a certain Grinchy someone, but darned if they don't fit Mr. Cheney, as well.

"You're a Mean One, Mr. Cheney."

You're a mean one, Mr. Cheney.
You really are a heel.
You're as cuddly as a cactus,
You're as charming as an eel
Mr. Cheney.

You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel.

You're a monster, Mr. Cheney.
Your heart's an empty hole.
Your brain is full of spiders,
You've got garlic in your soul
Mr. Cheney.

I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.

You're a vile one, Mr. Cheney.
You have termites in your smile.
You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile
Mr. Cheney.

Given the choice between the two of you I'd take the seasick crocodile.

You're a foul one, Mr. Cheney.
You're a nasty, wasty skunk
Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk
Mr. Cheney

The three words that best describe you are and I quote:
"Stink. Stank. Stunk."

You're a rotter, Mr. Cheney.
You're the king of sinful sots.
Your heart's a dead tomato splot with moldy purple spots,
Mr. Cheney

Your soul is an apalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of
deplorable rubbish imaginable, mangled up in tangled up knots.

You nauseate me, Mr. Cheney.
With a nauseaus super-naus.
You're a crooked jerky jockey and you drive a crooked horse
Mr. Cheney

You're a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce.

HUZZAH!

Since Williamsburg's air is always heavy with eccentric zeal, I think I'll go outside and give the work crew Dr. Hunszinger's lecture regarding the damages tar and nicotine wreak upon dental enamel and gums, and remind them about the horrors of George Washington's dentures.

Perhaps afterwards we can all join hands and sing Whoville's "Welcome, Christmas."

Da-who-dorays, ya'll.

Huzzah.