Well, it's another Sunday night and it's time to put this paper to bed.  Not that it NEEDS to go to bed because it doesn't actually get tired.  Although I'm sure there are some dear readers out there who would disagree and say it's been tired for sometime. 

Anyways, I've got to figure my plan of attack for tomorrow, Christmas Eve -- the day REAL men do all their Christmas shopping.  Since Wal-Mart stays open all hours of the day and night, I'll be hitting the aisles at about four in the morning.  The early bird catches the worm, and all that stuff.  Besides, it's much more pleasant walking through a mega-superstore where the only people in the aisles are me and the stock boys.  Okay, so I have to duck while they throw items onto the shelves, but it could be worse -- a mother with her six screaming kids and zombie husband could be following me down every aisle until I get to the baby section.  That's where I'd loose them because there ain't no WAY I'm going down the baby food aisle again in this lifetime.

Zombie men thoroughly depress me.  I just can't stand seeing a fellow member of the male species, a gender brother, pushing a shopping cart for his wife, blindly following her like a zombie.

Those kind of wives are all the same -- agitated, jittery, looking for the best bargain, picking up this can of soup, comparing it with that can of soup, finally putting both cans of soup in the cart, telling her husband to speed up, to slow down, to grab that box of cake mix, "No! Not that one, the store brand because it's cheaper."

And of course, sadly, the zombie men are all the same -- hunched over the shopping cart, shuffling feet, always looking down into the cart hoping to avoid the eyes of their male brothers, mumbling "Yes dear," and "Whatever you say, dear," and "Yes, they look fresh to me, dear," when what they REALLY want to say is "I don't give a rip, just put it in the cart and let's get out of here before someone I know sees me."

Sometimes, when the zombie men accidentally look up, I see in their eyes a wish for someone to put a bullet between their eyes to end their sufferings. But I have to look away; there is nothing I can do for them. When I go shopping, I leave my pistol at home.

But I digress -- I can hear Christmas music now, The Little Drummer Boy, and it makes me wonder if Mary and Joseph and the wise men would have put up with a little street urchin banging on a drum moments after the birth of Jesus.  I for one would have tossed him out on his sorry little backside.  I don't want some beginner drummer practicing rolls and paradiddles near my new-born baby's crib -- but that's me.  Maybe people back then were more tolerant.  Maybe so, but I'm pert-near positive if a Little Trombone Boy had come to play, they would have thrown him to the lions.

Of course, now I'm wondering What Would Jesus Play?  Probably the drums. And I can see Joseph playing rhythm guitar, Mary on the organ, and the three wisemen singing backup.  Their group would be called the Mary Mangers. The angel would be in charge of the lights and smoke machine and the little drummer boy would be watching intently so he could learn some better drumming technique.  I don't know what the sheep and cows and lambs would be doing, but does it really matter?  No, I don't think so either.

Of course the Mary Mangers would be playing rock 'n roll music because it appeals to the masses and really makes the people in charge nervous.  And it wouldn't be no silly soft rock music, nosirree!  We're talking heavy metal, head-banging, get down and dirty rock 'n roll with the speaker volume turned full blast to wake up everybody in the neighborhood.  Every headbanger knows a star shining from above is just a special effect -- it's the decibels that really count.

Well, I've rambled on long enough. Have a Merry Christmas! And if you don't hear from me for a couple of weeks, count yourself lucky!