Christmas Gifts for the Insanely Rich Guy Who Has Everything

Once upon a time I worked for one of the absolute top tier retail chains, the sort of chain that wouldn't let a sitting president or their spouse shop because they might actually have worked for a living at some point. I'm not going to name it, but in 1975 I believe the only place fancier was one known for having something in its Christmas Catalog for the Man Who Has Everything. Let's call that one Notoriously Monied.

So what might they sell for the Man Who Has Everything? All manner of things, as it turns out. Here are a few samples.

1. a seriously exclusive, custom car (1979);
2. a solid gold lighter (1985);
3. a rare pet (2001).

"Big deal," you say, and roll your eyes. Not so fast, dudo or duda. Read on before you step in it any deeper. FAQ

1. A car? Really?
   A car. Really. The car Enzo Ferrari always wanted to build but his accountants and lawyers screamed, "NO!" along with his wife, Laura. But after her 1978 death he decided to build something special for the NM Christmas Catalog and to heck with the lawyers and bean counters. The result was a car sporting a Merlin jet engine from a front line British fighter. The seat, like a Soviet space capsule crash couch, was molded to the owner's body before being hand covered in extra virgin unicorn hide. This wasn't just a fancy car; this was a fancy car that would leave the Batmobile a smoldering pile of slag at the starting line. Every driver in America wanted one, but a 1957 Ferrari Testa Rosa (the basis for the NM car's body style) was cheaper and easier to find. Ferrari made one per store. The Ferrari Ego sold out five minutes before it officially announced.
2. A solid gold lighter? Big deal.
   Big deal, indeed! Ten kilograms of 24 carat gold. Shaped like a sphinx, it could be used as a lighter, a welding or cutting torch (not that its owners cared), a flamethrower, or a hot air balloon engine. But wait! There's more! Hidden on the base was a button with a number (13) covered in a diamond crystal and set in a titanium bezel. It contained a (rare) 13th floor elevator button. Depressing it opened a portal and the owner (it was keyed to their soul) was whisked away to a dead man's party with Oingo Boingo. Most made it back. Few cared to repeat the experience. But it was theirs. This was possibly their most popular Everything item.
3. A pet? What kind of pet?
   Good, I see you have learned caution. Obviously not just any pet, but a rare pet of unknown origin. As in not of this planet and time. Seriously unknown as far as we are concerned. The instructions highly recommended not disabling the force field as violent death and further chaos and destruction might occur. While the cute 8" to 12" glowing lizard things looked harmless, it was alien enough no one disabled the force field. Sadly, this meant the creatures all died within a week but then the owners still had something rare; until then only federal governments had possessed dead space aliens. I just hope these were truly wild predators and not ambassadors from a technologically superior culture who would have helped us feed the planet, find peace, and cure the flu. Because who knows what they'd do now?

That took more time and words than expected, so you'll just have to wait to hear the tales of a hippie in a store too expensive to care about hip.

Ebola, My Love

As I look around at the current Ebola Hysteria, the media-whipped frenzy, the sheer volume of newsless news stories, the hordes of disinformation disseminators, I am confounded. By all that is modern American, why is no one cashing in on this?

Since nobody else has stepped up, I am. You should get in on the ground floor of this venture. No investment is too large, none too small. A dollar a share. Read on, and let your retirement fund drool!

First off, we need to rope in the kids. One of the first attractors is always a high sugar breakfast cereal. Introducing... Ebola[tm] breakfast cereal! The camera zooms in on a couple of terminally cute kids scarfing down their breakfast cereal, along with milk or a bright red energy drink. It zooms in further to a spoon coming out of a nearly emptied bowl. The spoon is full of milk, and three pieces of cereal- each in a (simplified) classic ebola virus shape.

The girl finishes just ahead of the boy as the camera pulls back.

In unison, they chant, "Mom! I want a bowl o' Ebola!"

Their Dad lowers his paper and looks at them.

"Please!" They call. Dad smiles, the paper goes back up, and Mom tells them to get it themselves; she's late for work.

As soon as the profits start rolling in, we hit the market with the dolls and action figures, just in time for the Holiday shopping insanity. Dolls? Dolls! Cute kids, bats, doctors and nurses, people in hazmat suits, angry American voters with pitchforks and torches, the works.

Ebola brand clothes for everyone from newborns to old folks; I predict the Ebola[tm] polo shirts will outsell Izod[tm] for at least a few months. Calvin Klein and Polo will be playing catch up.

We'll hold a contest; the winner gets a tour of the Presbyterian Dallas hospital's ebola ward,. complete with a custom biohazard suit in the colors of their choice, which they get to keep-- assuming their hometown lets them come back at all.

Last but not least, console and phone games. The flagship will be Ebola Wars, where everyone races to weaponize and deliver ebola to wipe out their enemies. Hydra would be proud.

This is American profiteering at its best. Don't get left behind!

The Great Presidential Campaign Massacree of 88

Composed in the Afternoon of Destruct... er, Election (1988-11-01)

Nowhere near my best, but I think it conveys the mood I was in facing such a nasty decision that day...

We wanted a tree so straight and strong
 To hold the sky up all day long
  Protect us from the heat of the day
   And keep the storms' destruction at bay
    But all we got was a scrawny bush.

We wanted a king to lead our land
 To hold at bay with outstretched hand
  The enemies coming to destroy
   Our world so fragile that we enjoy
    But all we got was a second-hand duke.

We wanted an eagle to fly so high
 We'd barely see him with our eye
  Our daily lives to so inspire
   That to these same heights we'd aspire
    But all we got was an unknown quail.

I wanted a metaphor as absurd
 As a tree, a duke, or a national bird
  But Bentsen to few things could compare
   Til one thing gave me quite a scare
    The last time we elected a hot dog Texan into the white
     house as VP to a Massachussets Miracle, we ended up deep
      sneakers in Vietnam!

And me a Texan-
 It is so vexin'...

Reproduced here exactly 26 years (OK, and a few hours) later than originally written. It would have been far more perfect in a presidential election year, but resurfaced as mid-terms are this Tuesday, the 4th.

Commando Fail, or How I Learned to Love the Shorts

Back in my hippie days- and for a while after- I went what is now known as commando style. We just called it "no undies", or "partial freedom". Total freedom would have been "no undies, no pants" but (a) I was free but not that free and (b) Atlanta at large was definitely not that free. Atlanta at large didn't want to know how free anyone was.

One fine, spring day I went to the doctor for a job-related injury- one totally unrelated to my freedom loving nether regions. The doctor decided I needed a penicillin shot. Do you know where penicillin shots go? Yup. Right in the nethers.

The young nurse giving me the shot was a little embarrassed, which made me feel the same as I leaned over the table with my butt hanging out for her and the world to see. An older nurse came in to talk with her as she gave the shot. They left to check on something. "Stay right there. We'll be right back."

I took them at their word and did just that, in part because they left the door open and there were worse things than showing my backside to whatever segment of Atlanta at large happened to stroll down the hallway. That segment happened be two elderly southern ladies. They kind of paused, their eyes got real big, then they started shuffling faster down the hallway. Great.

The nurses returned. "Are you OK?"

Having no reason to believe this question made any sense, I replied with a bit of sarcasm. "No, I think I'm dead."

The next thing I knew they had flipped me over on my back, were checking my heart and pulse, trying to look in my throat, asking if I can breathe, and generally making a scene. That was how I learned you can die from an allergic reaction to penicillin.

And it turns out that "Stay right there" actually meant "Pull your pants up and sit down". Who knew?

I stopped on my way home from work that afternoon to buy underwear.

The Munsters vs the Addams Family W4F Grudge Rematch

Back when the web was very younge, one of the better entertainment sites was the WWWF (World Wide Web Fights) Grudge match site. At least, if you were a fan of MAD Magazine style entertainment. Tom Stewart and I submitted a couple of entries, but we never got amy traction. Sadly, we lost the other[s] in an email catastrophe too painful to remember; only this one survives. I think Tom contributed to this one mainly via editorial help, but I'm not 100% sure.

---

This is the never-before released transcript of the World Wide Web Wrestling Foundation Grudge Rematch between the Munsters and the Addams Family.

Transcript Date: Tue, 28 Nov 1995 11:45 CST

---

Dawson, madly in lust with both Marilyn and Morticia, is too distracted to explain the rules properly. After botching them he attempts to correct himself but Gomez explains that a witnessed oral contract is legally binding. Dawson, sweating from hormones as well as the producer's voice yelling in his earphone, starts to argue but Lurch's grumble (which destroys two TV cameras in the aftershock) hushes him. The game begins with each pair of contestants answering both questions in a short time limit, and buzzers used only to startle Dawson out of his stupor when he stares too hard at the women and loses himself in fantasy.

1) Name something you find in your closet.
Morticia:	a rapidly-breeding nest of Pythagorean cobras
Lily:	Grandpa, hanging from the clothes rod
Dawson:	Round 1 to Morticia, since it's passably close to the number one audience answer - a nest of rapidly breeding clothes hangers.
2) Name something you eat for breakfast.
Fester:	a heaping bowl of chocolate-covered fried spiders!
Grandpa:	[staring at Fester's neck] a quart of A negative!
Dawson:	Round two to Fester since his answer is close enough to the average breakfast cereal as makes no difference.
[The Munsters look nervous, but continue smiling. Gomez pulls a ticker tape from his pocket and frowns.]
Director:	No smoking on the set! Put out that cigar!
Gomez:	[surprised] Of course! I had no idea! [grinds out cigar on hand]
3) What is that you're eating?
Marilyn:	a Mars Bar
Wednesday:	I'm not eating anything.
Dawson:	Sorry - that wasn't a game question.
Gomez:	Lurch?
Lurch:	Uuuuuuhhhhnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhh....
Morticia:	Look out!
[set collapses. When dust clears, everyone bruised but OK.]
Dawson:	OK, OK, it was a game question! What is that you're eating?
Marilyn:	Nothing. I lost my candy bar in the earthquake.
Wednesday:	[grabbing Marilyn's arm] A Girl Scout Cookie. [bites arm]
Marilyn:	Aaaahhhhh!
Morticia:	Wednesday, darling, no snacking between meals.
Wednesday:	[primly] Yes, mother. [drops arm]
Marilyn:	[plonk]
Dawson:	[rushes to Marilyn's side, begins giving mouth to mouth while Eddie expertly bandages Marilyn's arm]
Herman:	[slams Mil-spec buzzer button on loan from USAF] You stop that!
Dawson:	[leaps backwards, hits head on remains of set, collapses]
[brief interlude while Director screams, "Is there a game show host in the house?" A slender, grinning blonde woman steps forward.]
Vanna:	Round 3 to Marilyn, as most of the audience skipped breakfast in the excitement of getting to be on TV.
[commercial break]
Vanna:	Gomez may interpret for Cousin Itt in the next round.
Gomez:	Thank you, my dear. [kisses hand]
Director:	No smoking on the set! Put out that cigar!
Gomez:	[surprised]Of course! I had no idea! [grinds out cigar on forehead]
4) What is your favorite vowel?
Eddie:	F. I have a radio-controlled F-15 at home. Grandpa and I are building a life-size version next with real nuclear warhead-tipped missles!
Itt:	[typical, lovable Itt sounds]
Gomez:	That's amazing! Cousin Itt has one, too, and he and Puggsley are working on the same thing in one of our basements!
Vanna:	I need a vowel.
Itt:	[typical cute Itt noises]
Gomez:	Are you sure?
Director:	No smoking on the set! Put out that cigar!
Gomez:	[surprised] Of course! I had no idea! [grinds out cigar in ear]
Itt:	[typical cute Itt noises]
Gomez:	That's astounding! His favorite letter is also F!
Vanna:	Round 4 is a tie.
[Dawson wakes up, sees Marilyn and Morticia bending over him. Thinks he's died and gone to heaven. Grandpa walks over, looks thoughtful.]
Grandpa:	He looks a little puffy. I think a little blood-letting is in order.
Morticia:	That's just what he does need, dear.
[Morticia lifts an arm, Grandpa grins wolfishly, Marilyn pulls Girl Scout Machete out from under neck of sweater. Dawson faints again. Sounds of camera man retching, camera drifts off to point at ceiling.]
Vanna:	Looks like the Munsters need a win to tie, and a loss gives the whole alphabet to the Addams Family.
[Herman nervously grabs nearest pieces of set, begins twisting them unconsciously, creating sawdust pile at feet.]
5) Describe your favorite fantasy.
Herman:	A huh huh HUH HAH HAH HAH!!! [Blushes, begins twisting debris more furiously as ceiling crumbles and camera wavers.]
Gomez:	It's a perfect day. Stormy. Cold. A perfect beach - littered with fish parts, dead Portuguese Men-o-War, World War II mines... [Hands move dramatically. Gomez begins pacing, smoking furiously.] It's Christmas eve. [Band begins playing.] "Morti...cia roasting on an open fire... Sharks ... are nibbling my toes... War breaks out...in the Falklands again..."
Director:	Enough! And get rid of that cigar!
Gomez:	[surprised] Of course! I had no idea! [tosses cigar away]
Herman:	[turning a bizarre shade of reddish-green] I don't think I want to say. [sulks]
Vanna:	Then the Addams Family wins.
Lily:	Oh, go ahead, Herman.
Herman:	Are you sure, dear?
Lily:	Of course!
Herman:	[beginning to glow like a pile of Uranium gone critical] Well, it involves Vanna and Morticia, and a huge vat of...
Lily:	<gasp>
Herman:	of... [entire set has been reduced to huge pile of sawdust now waist-high on Herman. whose hands flap helplessly like huge industrial shredders (or maybe penguin wings)] of... cannibals!
Vanna:	Round 5 is awarded to Herman, as this exactly matches the responses of our mostly male audience. [Vanna White turns a deep shade of red, then flees, shrieking, with male audience chasing her, female audience evenly divided between angrily chasing the male audience and fighting Marilyn, Grandpa and Morticia for Richard Dawson.]
[Pat Sajak saunters on stage, grinning hugely. The glare of lights on his teeth sets various things on stage smouldering, including Gomez's discarded cigar.]
Pat:	Well, we need a tie-breaker. Let's have Thing and Spot up here. We'll ask a question, and whoever has an answer first hits the buzzer. Ready?
!) Name the most common disease in your family.
[Thing hits the buzzer. The set is quiet. Thing frantically begins hopping up and down.]
Pat:	We're waiting!
[Thing begins a pantomine.]
Gomez:	Many syllables - first word - sounds like... Paleontology? Pterodactyl? Peritonital? Pepto-Bismol(tm)?
Pat:	Sorry, time's up! Spot?
[Spot turns to a still dancing Thing, sneezes. Thing is enveloped in flame. Morticia screams. Seconds later, the flames die, and a skeletal hand appears, still hopping frantically. Gomez' cigar has started a fire in the sawdust at Herman's feet.]
Gomez:	Pascagoola? Portulacca? Pismo Beach? ...
Herman:	Aaaaahhhhh!!! [hops up and down,. scattering flaming sawdust. The studio shakes each time he lands.]
Pat:	And the studio answer? Bad breath! Spot was right! The Munsters win!
[Lurch growls. Herman starts laughing hysterically, still hopping. The combination proves to be too much for poor, old San Andreas. California rumbles into the Pacific, never to be seen again. Months later, however, divers off the new Arizona coast report strange, low-frequency rumbling and laughing noises underwater.]

 

Copyright 1995, 1997 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX and Triple R Publishing 2014, Round Rock, TX. All rights reserved.

If I Had a Pocket Lawnchair

For Mark Heard & Bruce Cockburn

The OOGling Anthem

by Miles O'Neal

This is all the fault of Gregory Simmons & Kyle Cheek from the notorious ``Orphans of God'' mailing list...

    here comes the riding mower -- second time today
    all the fescue seed scatters - it'll never go away
    why we don't just concrete over it, only God can say
    if i had a pocket lawnchair...i'd wait for the bus all day

    i don't believe in regulated networks, or care about commerce interstate
    i don't believe in telcos and their exhorbitant data line rates
    and when i talk with the survivors of things too sickening to relate
    if i had a pocket lawnchair...i'd leave them to their fate

    in the AOL chatrooms one hundred thousand wait
    to fall from speed starvation -- or some less humane fate.
    cry for busy modems, with all trunks busy, wait
    if i had a pocket lawnchair...i would just stagnate

    i want to meet Victoria -- at least i've got to try.
    i haven't met Bob or JenMuse, it brings tears to my eye.
    or Mark or Ti or gingerine, and i can't afford to fly
    without a pocket lawnchair...i'll just curl up and die

    19 Aug 1996
    Miles O'Neal

If you're wondering why the ``Orphans of God''- a mailing list revolving around the music of Mark Heard- has as its anthem a parody of a song by another artist, you didn't know Mark very well.

Strike One!

haiku factory strike
replacements still train, old writers
are pick[et]ing at scabs