FECES IN THE SEMI-NEWS: HO HO HO!!! MERDE CHRISTMAS!!
Making Santa real with reindeer feces: It is possible that the quest to make Santa Claus a convincing entity is going just a little too far?
By Judy Rumbold
THE GUARDIAN , LONDON
Saturday, Dec 25, 2004,Page 9
It started as a desire to follow the simple tradition of leaving out a mince pie and a glass of sherry for our hard-working visitors from the North Pole. The following year, feeling that perhaps the Christmas morning discovery of a half-eaten yuletide snack was not sufficient to convince the children of Santa's very real presence among us, we took Rudolph's dietary requirements into account and added a side-order of carrot.
But still it didn't seem enough, and the children were growing skeptical. Who was to say that we ourselves had not snaffled the feast? All it would take to blow the Father Christmas story sky high would be a simple DNA saliva procedure and a forensic sweep of the area, and then all the children's carefully constructed hopes and dreams would come crashing down around them.
All right, they were only four and seven at the time, but they watched The Bill like anyone else, and we didn't want to get caught out.
Clearly, more concrete evidence of Santa's actual physical presence in the house the previous night was needed. What was a little extra effort if the magic of Christmas was to remain intact?
The next year, we redoubled our efforts and, in addition to pie crumbs, sherry dregs and a semi-gnawed vegetable, we introduced a scattering of soot in and around the chimney area and some muddy footprints (using neighbor's wellington boots, mind. We're not stupid. We didn't want the children asking difficult questions about shoe-tread matches) leading from the fireplace out through the front door. God, we were pleased with ourselves, even if it was gone 3am when we finally got to bed. This was slick, this was well thought out. This was what it was like to get inside the head of a seasoned criminal mastermind, plotting heists and stings and track-covering jailbreaks.
The year after that, by now aged five and eight, doubts had started to form in their minds. Perfectly reasonable queries concerning stomach girth and chimney width ratio begged to be answered. This time, they were going to take some convincing. This time, the whole mock-visitation exercise would be further elaborated upon by scattering reindeer faeces in the hallway (chocolate truffles worked quite well) and setting out lengthy, handwritten thank-you notes from Santa and a whole host of elf helpers, and not forgetting a deer print -- taking care to remember, with the help of the I-Spy book of animal tracks, that the configuration of a deer's hoof is entirely different from any other common or garden animal paw you might have daubed before.
The next year, as we were debating whose turn it was to stand outside in the freezing cold for an hour to recreate, using a set of Early Learning Center handbells, the aural effect of a sleigh traveling at some speed somewhere in the middle distance, we were wondering if we hadn't made rather a lot of extra work for ourselves.
Nevertheless, it was a fleeting thought -- as fleeting, in fact, as a pixie's featherlight tread on a snowy rooftop -- and we pressed on with ever more extravagant plans for sleigh-runner marks on the gravel, some deer fur scattered around the front door and, to bring it all up to date a bit, perhaps a text message from the man himself saying he's running 20 minutes late, so don't be tempted to put the mince pies in the oven to warm up just yet.
Sure, there have been some mistakes along the way, the kind of loopholes and strategic slip-ups that would set serious alarm bells ringing if you were a member of the CSI homicide squad.
There was the time, for instance, when one of the children appeared at the top of the stairs and witnessed the disturbing sight of me biting into reindeer excrement -- and visibly enjoying it. And I can't say I'm proud of the occasion when I was caught red-handed shredding the inside of one of my son's favourite fleece-lined slippers for use in recreating the effect of Santa's beard snagging on the fire grate.
But, so far, we congratulate ourselves on having made a pretty good fist of Christmas.
Short of hiring a team of actors to re-enact the nativity on the front lawn, complete with live childbirth action, there is very little we wouldn't do to prolong the magic for our little ones. The fact that the sole motive behind the entire yearly charade might be our own enjoyment didn't occur to me until I overheard the children complaining about what a confounded mess Santa and his incontinent entourage are wont to leave in their wake, and surely it would be more practical all round if he simply left the booty outside the front door like the glorified postman he really is.
But at least they stopped shy of saying he didn't exist, which at the ages of nine and 12 is heartening and encouraging. Possibly in all the wrong ways, because it means that this year, the urge to indulge in some Christmas Eve theatrics will be as strong as ever.
As I write, the final plans are still being fine tuned, but let's just say next week's spectacle promises to be our best yet -- the sort of stuff that will make chocolate reindeer turds and fake footprints look like the work of total amateurs.
By Judy Rumbold
THE GUARDIAN , LONDON
Saturday, Dec 25, 2004,Page 9
It started as a desire to follow the simple tradition of leaving out a mince pie and a glass of sherry for our hard-working visitors from the North Pole. The following year, feeling that perhaps the Christmas morning discovery of a half-eaten yuletide snack was not sufficient to convince the children of Santa's very real presence among us, we took Rudolph's dietary requirements into account and added a side-order of carrot.
But still it didn't seem enough, and the children were growing skeptical. Who was to say that we ourselves had not snaffled the feast? All it would take to blow the Father Christmas story sky high would be a simple DNA saliva procedure and a forensic sweep of the area, and then all the children's carefully constructed hopes and dreams would come crashing down around them.
All right, they were only four and seven at the time, but they watched The Bill like anyone else, and we didn't want to get caught out.
Clearly, more concrete evidence of Santa's actual physical presence in the house the previous night was needed. What was a little extra effort if the magic of Christmas was to remain intact?
The next year, we redoubled our efforts and, in addition to pie crumbs, sherry dregs and a semi-gnawed vegetable, we introduced a scattering of soot in and around the chimney area and some muddy footprints (using neighbor's wellington boots, mind. We're not stupid. We didn't want the children asking difficult questions about shoe-tread matches) leading from the fireplace out through the front door. God, we were pleased with ourselves, even if it was gone 3am when we finally got to bed. This was slick, this was well thought out. This was what it was like to get inside the head of a seasoned criminal mastermind, plotting heists and stings and track-covering jailbreaks.
The year after that, by now aged five and eight, doubts had started to form in their minds. Perfectly reasonable queries concerning stomach girth and chimney width ratio begged to be answered. This time, they were going to take some convincing. This time, the whole mock-visitation exercise would be further elaborated upon by scattering reindeer faeces in the hallway (chocolate truffles worked quite well) and setting out lengthy, handwritten thank-you notes from Santa and a whole host of elf helpers, and not forgetting a deer print -- taking care to remember, with the help of the I-Spy book of animal tracks, that the configuration of a deer's hoof is entirely different from any other common or garden animal paw you might have daubed before.
The next year, as we were debating whose turn it was to stand outside in the freezing cold for an hour to recreate, using a set of Early Learning Center handbells, the aural effect of a sleigh traveling at some speed somewhere in the middle distance, we were wondering if we hadn't made rather a lot of extra work for ourselves.
Nevertheless, it was a fleeting thought -- as fleeting, in fact, as a pixie's featherlight tread on a snowy rooftop -- and we pressed on with ever more extravagant plans for sleigh-runner marks on the gravel, some deer fur scattered around the front door and, to bring it all up to date a bit, perhaps a text message from the man himself saying he's running 20 minutes late, so don't be tempted to put the mince pies in the oven to warm up just yet.
Sure, there have been some mistakes along the way, the kind of loopholes and strategic slip-ups that would set serious alarm bells ringing if you were a member of the CSI homicide squad.
There was the time, for instance, when one of the children appeared at the top of the stairs and witnessed the disturbing sight of me biting into reindeer excrement -- and visibly enjoying it. And I can't say I'm proud of the occasion when I was caught red-handed shredding the inside of one of my son's favourite fleece-lined slippers for use in recreating the effect of Santa's beard snagging on the fire grate.
But, so far, we congratulate ourselves on having made a pretty good fist of Christmas.
Short of hiring a team of actors to re-enact the nativity on the front lawn, complete with live childbirth action, there is very little we wouldn't do to prolong the magic for our little ones. The fact that the sole motive behind the entire yearly charade might be our own enjoyment didn't occur to me until I overheard the children complaining about what a confounded mess Santa and his incontinent entourage are wont to leave in their wake, and surely it would be more practical all round if he simply left the booty outside the front door like the glorified postman he really is.
But at least they stopped shy of saying he didn't exist, which at the ages of nine and 12 is heartening and encouraging. Possibly in all the wrong ways, because it means that this year, the urge to indulge in some Christmas Eve theatrics will be as strong as ever.
As I write, the final plans are still being fine tuned, but let's just say next week's spectacle promises to be our best yet -- the sort of stuff that will make chocolate reindeer turds and fake footprints look like the work of total amateurs.
1 Comments:
Blogger ate my first and second comments, so I will try it again.
I posted this article for several reasons. One, it contains the "other" spelling of the word "feces", which in this case is "faeces"... a word which can cause me to experience inexplicable storms of laughter. Two, it points up the absurdity of Christmas as celebrated by many.
That time of year was originally a time of pagan celebrations centered around the winter solstice. It was then decided, as Christianity began to attain prominence, and even though there was no absolute certainty as to the actual day of Jesus' birth... that the event should be celebrated about that time.
Skipping a number of centuries, we find that Santa has entered the picture, and that things here in America get the crass commercialism treatment around Christmas time. Jesus instructed his followers to dump their worldly possessions and follow him, and nowadays they celebrate his birth by giving each other some fun worldly possessions... go figure.
I would rather see Christmas gift-giving done like Native Americans have done for centuries in the Pacific Northwest, with a system of "potlatch", defined here by www.m-w.com as: "a ceremonial feast of the American Indians of the northwest coast marked by the host's lavish distribution of gifts or sometimes destruction of property to demonstrate wealth and generosity with the expectation of eventual reciprocation".
The emphasis in daily life would probably still be on accumulating as many really cool possessions as possible, but every so often all those things would have to be given away. Then, when the giver (the potlatch host) was suddenly destitute, the community would reciprocate and there would be no worry that the giver would starve or be in need.
On the other hand, if anyone wants me to give up my collections of CDs and musical instruments, they can forget it!! 8-)>
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