O' Holiday Tree. O' Holiday Tree

I might be a little late getting in on this issue, but what the hell....

Until yesterday, I didn’t know that the United States Capitol’s Pointy Decorated Pine Tree had, until just recently, been referred to as the Capitol Holiday Tree since the late 90s.

Never having heard of a “holiday tree” before, I looked into it. Among other things, I learned that “holiday tree” is being used more than I would ever have expected.

Merriam Webster has both the word “holiday” and the word “tree” listed, complete with definitions, but I found no listing for “holiday tree,” “holiday-tree” or “holidaytree.” There is nothing listed for these words in the Merriam Webster thesaurus either.

Merriam Webster did have a definition for Christmas tree: “a usually evergreen tree decorated at Christmas”.

Interestingly, the History Channel reports that the origin of the Christmas tree we know today dates back to 16th Century Germany. That’s a long damned time.

Knowing that our country has delved into the nearly-irrecoverable depths of political correctness and over-sensitivity, I figure that some misguided, but well-meaning dumbass decided it would be kind, sensitive, and accommodating to call the Capitol Christmas tree a “holiday tree” to ensure that Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus etc., aren’t offended.

Before you get into a froth over religious shit, stop and take a deep breath. My angle isn’t religious; it’s one of common sense.

Renaming the Christmas tree the “holiday tree,” because some of our citizens’ backgrounds, is analogous of renaming Independence Day because certain of our citizenry are either dependent, Phengophobic, or, frighteningly, both.

If certain idiots think it’s necessary to rename the Christmas tree because of religious sensitivities, why stop there? Let’s do away with the Easter Bunny too. I can hear it now. “When you wake up tomorrow morning little Johnny, you’re going to find all sorts of goodies left in a basket for you by the Springtime Holiday Bunny.”

And while we’re at it, I want the IRS to change the phrase “Tax Return” because I once sat on a bunch of thumbtacks, which a grade school “friend” had placed strategically on my chair. Think about it. Do you see how I suffer each tax season? Shit, there’s another phrase I might need to have liquidated!

One final note: How many Christmas celebrants actually celebrate this holiday by remembering the person for whom the day was named? I’ll go out on a limb and suggest that Christmas today has less religious significance than it does commercial consumer significance or significance as a family-bonding holiday.

Anyway....I could go on and spend hours on idiocy like this, but I have a glass of apple juice screaming my name and some kids and a wife that need beating. ;-)

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Once upon a time, long, long ago I worked in Key West Florida. A few friends and I happened to stumble into an all-nude female dance club called The Pirate’s Den one night. We were quite drunk.

The dance floor was in the middle of club. Patrons (that’s us) sat in chairs around the dance floor. The floor itself was probably four feet off the floor. When seated in a chair, the dance floor was about chest-level to an average Joe.

Five or six of us spent an hour or so there, doing shots of tequila (with beer chasers) and admiring the fine art of nude dancing.

A friend, whom we called Biff (because that’s what the Michelin Tire man’s name is) was particularly shitfaced. At one point, one of the dancers grooved up to him. Sensually, she slid her panties off (jackpot!) and put them on Biff’s drunken head. She got her tip and went about her business. We kept drinking.

After a few minutes I glanced over at Biff and just knew he was going to blow. He was swaying from side to side in his chair, and the look on his face was priceless. I imagined an alien ship had descended from the heavens and sucked the brains out of his head with a big, giant alien fun-straw.

Biff barfed. The dancer was about 30 feet away on the other side of the dance floor when he deposited his lunch on the dance floor. He did it so stealthily (probably not intentionally) that I think I was the only one to notice. Being the good buddy that I was, I spread the word quickly. Probably something like, “Fuckin’ Biff puked dude.”

After showering the small section of dance floor. Biff went back to swaying and grinning, not really knowing what was going on.

A few short minutes later, one of us told Biff that he’d puked all over the dance floor and that he better clean it up before we got kicked out of the bar. Biff’s response was to dutifully start the cleanup – With the dancer’s pretty, lacy panties. We laughed our asses off at his lame attempt at cleaning the floor with those tiny little thangs.

Eventually hotnudiedancergirl made her way back to us to ply us for more money. She wanted her panties back, which Biff had placed on the chair next to him. Biff, never one to disappoint the ladies, gave her the panties; the panties soaked completely with bile, stomach acids, various foodstuffs, tequila and beer.

Her reaction was just as you might imagine. There were a few shrieks, an “ewwwwwwwww,” a “that’s fuckin’ nasty,” etc. She gave Biff the cussing of a lifetime, like only a sailor, a truck driver, or a dancergirl could do. Being sailors, we were proud of her abilities and nodded approvingly (not really, but it would’ve been cool if we had). Instead, we slowly distanced ourselves from Biff, hoping he’d be the only one bounced. Fuck biff. We wanted to stay and drink. Let him get bounced and spend a while sobering up on a bench outside on Duval street.

No such luck. We were all bounced. The moral of the story? I have no fucking idea, but if you’re gonna clean up your puke with a nude dancer’s panties, make damned sure you don’t give them back to her!

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Dubya Quote of the Day:
"I think younger workers—first of all, younger workers have been promised benefits the government—promises that have been promised, benefits that we can't keep. That's just the way it is." —Washington, D.C., May 4, 2005