Ho Ho Ho boys and girls. It is mid October and one question that bothers me with only 70 shopping days left until Li'l Big J's birthday is can someone please send me a catalog? These things show up at our door step so much that I forgot who my local Jahova's were. Anything under the sun is now fore sale in a catalog.
There are some companies that are needed. What would we do if there were no outlet selling nuts, fruits, coffees, and jellies in a shoddy basket? What other gift could we give our family that sends the message if you actually thank me for this you are full of shit? These "waste baskets" are the new age ugly sweaters. Needless to say the yarn industry has suffered the worse in this transition.
One of my favorite gifts I was given during the holiday season was a big freaking tin of popcorn. I was nine. Since when does a nine year old need the weight of his head in popcorn? Especially since in the past eight weeks I spent selling popcorn for cub scouts. Caramel corn is not quite as cool as a Transformer.
There comes a point in life where we decide the best thing for someone is to do their grocery shopping for them and call that a holiday gift. During six straight Christmas we gave my Grandma some jelly and buscuit basket. It was not much more than a take out order from the Cracker Barrel. There were about eight different fruit spreads in itty bitty jars. The jars were small enough to be opened but near impossible to get any jelly out from the enclosed shot glass. Is it protocal when becoming old to embrace the flavor country called mint jelly? If so, I now have another reason to top out at 50.
The issue at hand is the barrage of catalogs that plagues our mailboxes. It is almost impossible to stop them too. Try and get off one mailing list and then you find out that your info was already sold to thirty more companies. Postal herpes in a way I guess.
Some times of the year there are more serious outbreaks than others. Withdrawing from a mailing list helps prevent postal herpes breakouts, but remember there are no cures since this all goes back to that vulnerable night you had alone in your apartment. Weak, drunk, and most likely lonely a phone call was placed for an old fashioned stove top popcorn maker and an outfit best suited for a substitute teacher.
Like Motown said. Everybody plays the fool. We just don't need to pass the foolishness on to others though.