’Tis the Season

Somehow, in the middle of the holiday season, these last few days before Christmas, yours truly just can’t 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 can’t keep up with reality.

And then there’s Britain’s pending experiment with the attempted wholesale disarmament of its population — 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 Arizona’s and California’s 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 lives’ work to torment decent people, I find myself mellowing uncharacteristically with the season. The last of the presents are wrapped, soon I’ll 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 I’ll set the lethal surprises I’m 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 I’ll be back with a belated present for all of my readers, but especially for my British friends. And that’s all I’ll say about that for now.

Have yourself a Merry One — and don’t get caught.