I’ve been too lazy to write things down. I still gots the ideas jumping inside the skull cavity, but I ain’t writing shit down like I should.

Here’s some bouncing non sequiturs (I think the “bouncing” there is a non sequitur itself).

I always feel a tad nostalgic around the holidays. Right now, I’m foundly recalling Santa Claus. I think it says something (not sure what) that I learned Santa was a sham by looking it up in the dictionary. Around the same time, using the same dictionary, I discovered that a whorehouse was a large storage facility. At some later point in life, I figured out the difference between wares and whores.

I guess I’m lucky that when my domestic partner gets an edge, it’s over a bad haircut or a lack of BBQ pork in his diet. As he told me (and, of course, I’m leaving out all context in order to make myself clearly the long, suffering and tortured one), “At least I don’t hit you.” Nonetheless, lately I’ve been telling people, “you know in Lifetime movies how the guy moves the chick away from her folks, and then she turns up missing…”

Since I now live in a land where sarcasm and hyperbole are often misunderstood, I probably shouldn’t have written the last paragraph. How much would it suck if M. had a huge shakedown, because something random happens to me, and I’m a fucking asshole wiseguy on the Internet making him number one suspect.

Speaking of domestic abuse, Nancy Grace, my heroine of CNN, may have spoken the best line ever, matching both Shakespeare for drama and Spanish-language soap operas for melodrama. It was something like, and I fucking wish I had it exactly, “Can someone tell me why all these pregnant women are dropping like flies.” (Per Nance, most US pregnant chicks who die, die by murder. If true it sucks, but with the grace of her ability to make all things sound completely fucked and sinister, she made it seem epidemic and epic in proportion. Thankfully, there aren’t streets full of mortally wounded mothers to be.)

Continuing on the death front, the worst thing about the Internet is that shit can’t die, or at least can’t die enough. This once vital cog in the wheel of Boston Comedy is beyond brain dead. Terry Schiavo time. If you could hold a pillow over it’s virtual face, I would do it.

Danger’s Sidekick is pretty fucking fun. I work among serious Blackberry, aka CrackBerry addicts. The gadget freak in me looked on and fought with my mortal soul that wants no part of a short electronic leash to the office. The boss, like any good pusher, kept offering me the taste, the hook up, the memo to get my own, paid for by the man.

I declined. Repeatedly. Afterall, these people are mad. They don’t sleep. They tap tap tappity tap and talk and get their crackberry jones filled over and over through all hours of the day and night in literally every corner and quarter of the planet earth that has reception. They twitch in dead zones.

So I got my own. It’s methadone I pay for myself, instead of heroine fed from the office teat. It’s not the work tool always on to the workplace mothership. It’s fun and frolic with Rap ring tones and flashing lights. Fuck the office, man, I can hear Eminem and Kayne.

When my boss pointed out again that she had the hookup, I explained that I might want to call a whole lot of 976 numbers and couldn’t do that on a work phone. Best of all, in the world of gadget envy, mine plays the .WAV files of our VOIP phone systems voicemail messages, which Blackberry does not.

Work still surprises me. They recently hired an HR chick who has a personality and is funny and human. It’s a fucked up bizarro world out here.

Despite a general disdain for all things New England, my boy of Christmas cheer is planning a Yankee Swap on Christmas Eve. He’s kind of adorable on the holiday thing (in a geeky, let’s look it up in wikipedia kind of way).

Except, as been pointed out here before, he is, somehow, a medium channeling the ghost of Pat. He’s thinking a fake tree would sufficiently spruce the place up and claims to not see the difference.

Ho Ho ho.