I don’t know if children in other nations do this to their standard songs.

“Jingle Belles, Batman Smells, Robin Laid an Egg, The Batmobile Lost its wheel and the Joker Got Away — Hey!”

The other classic that pops immediately to mind is the “like Pinocchio” “like Monopoly”, etc interspersed after various lines of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

I was sitting at a bus stop with a mother and child visiting and trying to escape the city from the suburbs — I think visiting for the lighting of the Christmas Tree. The snot-nosed 10 year old boy jumped into what I guess is the newest rendition of the tradition…

“I believe I can die”
(The second line has two variations: “I got ran over by the ice cream guy” or “I got ran over by the FBI” (Is there any difference between the two? I don’t know.)
“All I wanted was a cherry pie.”
“I believe I can die.”

Take it for what it’s worth. For the life of me I don’t know where these things can from, or how they spread around in the community of elementary school kids.

He’ll be singing at the annual Christmas Children’s Mass, I suppose. An event that nobody anywhere, not the children, not the parents, not the congregation, not the priest, wants any part of… but there it is…

At the top of my lungs, along with 20 other kids: “I AM THE CHURCH! YOU ARE THE CHURCH! YES WE’RE THE CHURCH TOGETHER! ALL WHO FOLLOW JESUS ALL AROUND THE WORLD — LET’S BE THE CHURCH TOGETHER!”

That’s a bad scene. I remember attending one from the pews at the age of 11 or so, quote-in-quote “forgetting” to tell my parents that I had to be at church early for the event (actually taking advantage of being absent a week earlier when the priest reminds everyone what is to come next week), and the CCD music director chewing me out a couple days later for being in the pews and not in the chior section, threatening to drag me out next time by my ears. The only thing I can think is that “Misery loves company”.

I’m trying to find the transcript of the Seinfeld “Festivus Episode”…

One of the final two seasons, I’m pretty sure. I don’t remember what the “main plot” was, so I can’t figure what the title was.

This is the best I have at the moment.:

Anyway…

So, Bill O’Reilly is leading the charge to “Save Christmas” from what I’ll call, and I don’t mean this term pergoratively in this instance, lowest-common-demoninators of marketers and gummint officials.

The horror of the situation can be found in Bill O’Reilly‘s commentary here. The horror of Canadian Public Opinion! The horror!!

Macys greeters are no longer saying “Merry Christmas” and instead saying “Happy Holidays”? My god — next they’ll be barging into your houses and ripping the bible out of your hands!!

But you know what? I think I’m going to go ahead an oblige him.

I say here and now that I am going to steal your Christmas.

And there won’t be any of this “Every Who down in Who-ville, the tall and the small, as singing! Without any presents at all!” crap.

After I’m done… there won’t be any singing.

Feel free to email this Bill O’Reilly…

Item #1: found here:

From LUKE STANGEL, Palo Alto Daily News: I just got back to the office from the live taping of the Hannity & Colmes Fox News talk show at the Flint Center in Cupertino, Calif. Our newspaper has been following fifth-grade teacher Stephen Williams’ lawsuit against his school district after his principal barred him from handing out literature that she felt amounted to Christian propaganda.

“On a personal note, for all of you who voted for President George W. Bush, thank you for saving America,” Hannity said, before the tape began rolling.

Item #2:

“Liberal Values are Under Attack”
That’s what Alan Colmes said last night during the final hour of his radio show when he exhorted liberals to “get with the program” and start fighting back against the conservative onslaught.

Specifically, he was referring to the lack of liberals in the audience the night before during his TV show, Hannity & Colmes, in Cupertino, California, home of the latest FOX cause celebre, “Take Back America.”

“You know about the Phoenix Project?”
For the sake of politeness: “Well, I know that Einstein’s Theory of Relativity allows for…”
“Einstein’s Theory of Relativity is elementary physics.”
“Yes, but it’s the base, and it’d be the base for the supposed Phoenix Project.”
“Look it up.”
“Type into google ‘Phoenix Project’ and ‘Einstein’ and I’ll see a video of Einstein disappearing into time, you say?”
“Yes. You go do that.”
“You get this from Art Bell?”
“Who?”

………
“I’m confused. You said that your kids believed in God.”
“Yes.”
“And you said that they were atheists.”
“Yes.”
“They can’t be atheists who believe in God.”
“Hm. You’re right.”

Props to Rep. Gerald Allen.

Whatever props those are, I do not know.

Back in high school, my Literature class was reading Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Earnest”, in class.

A classmate asked, “What — are these guys gay?” The teacher shook her head, “No, they’re straight.”

I said, “The writer’s gay.”

The classmate said, “Really?”, and the teacher answered “Well, yeah, he was. But the characters … they’re straight.”

Though… not in all productions of the play. If I were prescient enough of how the gay adorers of Oscar Wilde occasionally change the focus of the play when performing the thing, I would have said right then “Not in all productions of the play.” (Though someone in the class would’ve then accused me of being gay…)

What I liked, though, was the biography in this Literature textbook. His flamboyance got him into legal trouble? What does that mean?

Never mind. I should stick to the more strongly heterosexual bible. Jesus Christ surrounded by 13 men, one who wants to kill him and the other 12 who want to wash his feet…

Under the plans, troops would funnel Fallujans to so-called citizen processing centers on the outskirts of the city to compile a database of their identities through DNA testing and retina scans. Residents would receive badges displaying their home addresses that they must wear at all times. Buses would ferry them into the city, where cars, the deadliest tool of suicide bombers, would be banned.

Marine commanders working in unheated, war-damaged downtown buildings are hammering out the details of their paradoxical task: Bring back the 300,000 residents in time for January elections without letting in insurgents, even though many Fallujans were among the fighters who ruled the city until the US assault drove them out in November, and many others cooperated with fighters out of conviction or fear.

One idea that has stirred debate among Marine officers would require all men to work, for pay, in military-style battalions. Depending on their skills, they would be assigned jobs in construction, waterworks, or rubble-clearing platoons.

“You have to say, ‘Here are the rules,’ and you are firm and fair. That radiates stability,” said Lieutenant Colonel Dave Bellon, intelligence officer for the First Regimental Combat Team, the Marine regiment that took the western half of Fallujah during the US assault and expects to be based downtown for some time.

Bellon asserted that previous attempts to win trust from Iraqis suspicious of US intentions had telegraphed weakness by asking, ” ‘What are your needs? What are your emotional needs?’ All this Oprah [stuff],” he said. “They want to figure out who the dominant tribe is and say, ‘I’m with you.’ We need to be the benevolent, dominant tribe.

“They’re never going to like us,” he added, echoing other Marine commanders who cautioned against raising hopes that Fallujans would warmly welcome troops when they return to ruined houses and rubble-strewn streets. The goal, Bellon said, is “mutual respect.”

Nah… There just aren’t enough flowers to throw.

Actually, this is the future for America.

Nay. I’m just getting paranoid there.

Or am I?

Recommended reading: the latest issue of Harpers. Particularly of interest: Greg Grandin’s review of proclaimed pro-overt American Empire advocate Naill Ferguson’s latest book. I haven’t read anything from Ferguson — only seen him during the blathering class circuit– so maybe I oughta “hear him out on paper” more than the occasional creepy sentences I hear him speak when I hear/see him.

This is vaguely interesting.

Mostly because political battles have a way of turning toward the question of whether you’re a little too cozy with the Fascists or a little too cozy with the Communists. (Wasn’t that the battles on the street that were going on during the Weimer Republic Germany?)

Henry Wallace was deposed of as vice-president, by men in smoky backrooms at the DNC Convention. It kind of goes back to what the South wanted, actually.

“Do you know if George Bush really did win the last presidency? Do you know if your last mortgage firm gave you the best terms? Two valid questions. One way to deal with it: Investigate.”

And so goes the ad on Portland’s Air America Radio affiliate… another format Clear Channel can buy into, and throw up their grating voiceover guy, retoned to suit the audience. (Around Halloween time, it was “Dressing up as Dubya would be just too scary” or “Don’t let John Ashcroft bite.”)

Imageine this advertisement in a slightly different form on the right-wing radio stations. “Did Clinton kill Vince Foster?” or something like that.

Easily swarth into the cottage industry, one that I found tedious through the past few years and was hoping would vanish with a Kerry victory.

Enough of this crap, please.

Actually, back before the election, the Bush Campaign bought ads on the station. They were crafty enough ads, focusing on the flip-flopping and not the dangerous liberal — for the same effect the Republican pro-Nader ads of 2000 works — to demoralize any Kerry supporters.

The Clear Channel contribution to the mess seems to be to dump Chuck D’s program and install Ed Whatshisname, an ex-Republican DNC-enthused Dakotan who I wouldn’t be too suprised if you claimed made the ideological switch as a career choice. Whither Chuck D? I don’t know.

There is something to say with Jeanine Garofola’s expressed fatigue. The real problems with Air America Radio has little to do with the business crisis the company faced early on in its run back in April, but more with what happens when the various fixtures leave to pursue other projects. (I’m guessing the useless “Randi Rhodes” stays on — this is her career, as with Mike Malloy.) The trick is to maintain your brand.

There’s also something in something regular guest, of Brockley Almanac from out of Nebraska, hit a right tone: “The vote totals were probably already decided months ago. Go in a different direction.”

Sure.

“I see your problem,” my father said. “It’s deuced frustrating. You know, most adults don’t feel they have time to answer the questions of you little whippersnappers. But I can tell you how to get all the local news.”

“How?” I asked.

“It’s simply a matter of who you ask. As I said, most adults won’t give you the time of day –but here’s what you must do. Look for a shabby individual, one who is a bit dirty, needs a shave, and doesn’t smell very nice. Theis chap will often be sitting on a bench in the park. You may notice that he has a bottle of wine in a paper bag.”

“A bum?” I asked.

“So to speak,” my father said. “Now here’s someone who has plenty of time to observe the passing parade. He’s generally ignored by the rest of society — nobody wants to hear anything he may have to say. You give this fellow your respectful attention, and possibly fifty cents, and he will tell you everything he knows.”

“So ask a bum in the park?”

“Do remember that some people who fit the description are psychotic and might possibly attack you. But if you’re polite, keep a safe distance, and your eye on a route of escape, you should be all right. About the worst thing that may happen will be having a small wine bottle bounced off your noggin.”

[…]

“Good afternoon, sir” Bruno Ugg said. “I am Bruno Ugg, this is my friend Loretta Fischetti, and this lad we simply call Nick.”

“If you’re members of the Democratic Party trying to scare up votes, you’re wasting your time,” the bum said.

“It’s nothing like that,” I said. “We just wanted to wish you a good afternoon and pass the time of day.”

“I am Meehan the Bum,” the bum said. “I have always voted a straight Republican ticket, and the park is free to all.”

“Rather than get into a discussion of politics,” Loretta Fischetti said, “we wondered if you possibly recall the giant chicken that caused such a stir in Hoboken.”

Meehan took a swig from his bottle of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He gazed over our heads, across the park, and up the Hudson River. His eyes were red rimmed and watery.

“Giant chicken, you say? Aye, I have seen the giant chicken. I have seen the giant chicken of Sumatra, a bird too h;orrible to speak of. I have seen giant chickens in the hills of Kalimantan Borneo strong enough to carry away a young bullock in their beaks. See this scar?”

Meehan the Bum pointed to the knee of his greasy cordoury trousers. We nodded, although we saw no scar, only dirty fabric.

“I got this scar in a fight with a giant chicken in a back alley in Kowloon. Arr, children, I have seen more giant chickens than you had hot breakfasts. I’ve seen them on land and sea, seen them in Afric and Asia and here in the States. I was chased by a giant chicken in Arizona once — had me on the run for four days. I had to climb down one side of the Grand Canyon and up the other. When a giant chicken takes a dislike to you, it’s a hard bird to get away from.”

“Can you tell us anything about the giant chicken that was here in Hoboken?” I asked.

“Once I was in Ulan Bator. I was faving a saucer of fermented mare’s milk, when this giant chicken walks up to me.

“‘I suppose you think you’re better than me, the giant chicken says.

“‘I think nothing of the sort,’ I say. ‘I am just haivng a quiet saucer of kumis and a poppy-seed bagel.’

“‘I saw the way you looked at me when I cam in,’ the giant chicken said. ‘You Republicans have ruined everything.’

“I can see I am going to have to fight this giant chicken. He’s an ugly customer, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled a knife or a gun on me. So I say, ‘Excuse me, but is that your order of mashed potatoes?’ Giant chickens can’t resist potatoes. While he is distracted, looked for the potatoes, I klonk him with a bottle and run out the dorr.”

“How about the giant chicken right here in town?” I asked. “Have you ever run into her?”

“Well, actually,” Meehan the Bum said. “this is the first time I’ve heard of it.”

From Looking for Bobowicz…