by J.D. Tuccille
December 21, 1996
íTis the Season
Somehow, in the middle of the holiday season, these last few days before Christmas, yours truly just canít seem to build up quite the usual head of steam. Sure, Clinton aides seem to keep tripping over pillow cases stuffed with cash of bizarre origin ... I mean, Buddhist cults? Christ! Satire canít keep up with reality.
And then thereís Britainís pending experiment with the attempted wholesale disarmament of its population ó really an exercise in rendering handgun owners into outlaws, since I have great faith in the impulse to resist among the good folks of the UK.
Prohibitionists across the United States are scrambling to short circuit Arizonaís and Californiaís experiments in not jailing everybody who inhales the smoke of the evil herb.
And the government of my little metropolitan stomping ground is desperately battling to hold on to its income tax surcharge. Trust me, New York does not need a surcharge on its income tax.
But instead of fuming at the confiscators, bluenoses, and intrusive swine who make it their livesí work to torment decent people, I find myself mellowing uncharacteristically with the season. The last of the presents are wrapped, soon Iíll depart to spend a week with family, and so I gaze out past the broken glass epoxied to the windowsill of my East Village apartment and think kind thoughts about the junkies roaming the early morning streets. Soon Iíll set the lethal surprises Iím leaving behind for any unwanted visitors (humanely quick, in keeping with the season, I promise), and make my way out in search of a taxi.
Ah, Christmas. I do love this time of year.
And before you know it Iíll be back with a belated present for all of my readers, but especially for my British friends. And thatís all Iíll say about that for now.
Have yourself a Merry One ó and donít get caught.
Ah well, and so much for the power of argument. So back you go to Full Automatic or to my home page.
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Copyright (c) 1996 Jerome D. (Il Tooch) Tuccille. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or medium without express written permission of Il Tooch is prohibited. Mess with me and Iíll use your polished skull as a beer mug.