Be merry Be happy
It’s that time of year where you’re looking over your shoulder every three minutes.
If you’re doing naughty stuff — not “that” naughty (bunch of sickos) stuff — then you’re hoping no one is looking.
If you’re doing good stuff, then you hope someone is watching. Because it’s just kinda crass to point to yourself and shout, “Just helped an older American load groceries in their car! Yes! That was me!”
Or, “Look at me, look at me ... I stopped and did not run over that crazy rabbit in the middle of the road!
“Come on, look!”
Yeah, it’s Christmastime and that means we all try to cram as much good into the last few weeks of the year so the Jolly Fat Man (no, not me), a.k.a. Santa Claus, a.k.a. Kris Kringle, a.k.a. Dude, will think we were upstanding citizens and good boys and girls all year.
Like you can fool him.
But I think (I hope I hope I hope I hope) I’ve been on the upward curve of being nice lately.
Sorta.
I’ve kinda watched my language. I admit, I can get salty sometimes. Hey, I grew up above the Mason-Dixon Line and salty language “up there” is kinda the norm.
“I’m gonna let that little range top raider have it!” I’ve shouted, rather than the other words I might normaly use (“I’m gonna let that booger picker have it!”)
See how pleasant my language has become.
But ask anyone, I have awesome manners.
That has to count for something.
Somewhere.
Right?
Ho! Ho! Ho!
Did I taunt others with the fact the Fighting Illini made a bowl this year?
Take that you Vandy loving cookie jar hand-in catchers!
No, I didn’t do that.
I just smiled.
A big smile, too.
Though I did rub in that Wisconsin win.
You get the drift.
I have not strong-armed anyone to buy me White Sox tickets for the 2020 season.
Day ain’t over, yet.
Just kidding! Just kidding!
I’ve even folded my clothes.
Why? I have no idea.
Just sounded like something that would sound good on a “What a good person am I” resume for Christmas.
I have even offered to fry eggs for people.
“Would you care for a fried egg?” I ask.
“Will you stop that!” I’m answered.
Oh, well.
And yes, Mr. Shoopman, I did not show up for a cup of blueberry cobbler.
That is, no doubt, my loss.
But I promise, I wasn’t being naughty.
See, I’m even thanking you for a yummy treat I didn’t get.
Look at me, look at me! See how good I was there?
But I ain’t too worried about what Ole Santa is going to put under my tree.
Buster would chew it up anyway.
Maizie would watch with fascination.
Then hope Buster would get in trouble.
Truth is, I told my son what I wanted for Christmas. Not Santa.
My daughter, as well.
And I don’t want them to spend a dime.
I’ve had, actually, a pretty good year.
I’ve been able to help others when I could. That’s always a good feeling.
I’ve been afforded an abundance of friends — more than I ever thought I would have, or need.
But you can never have too many friends.
My loved ones are healthy — physically anyway. They’re all a bunch of nutjobs, but that’s why I love them.
One in particular.
Crazy, crazy, crazy.
It’s Christmastime.
Be merry. Be happy.
Be good (for goodness sake!).
Oh, and it’s 62 days until pitchers and catchers report.
See how good I am to share the information?
