As we dive into the holiday season, that time of year when some members of the human race strive to hold charitable thoughts for all members of the human race, I can’t help but reflect upon the fact that my nutmeg grater resembles a Star Trek shuttlecraft. 
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Chappy Chanukah 
Truly, the FSM has touched me with his noodly appendage. I felt his presence – what other possible, earthly explanation could there be for my good fortune? – while searching for Hanukah-themed bling décor for a friend’s upcoming party. What unbridled joy, to stumble upon a holiday-themed kitchen gadget that incorporated one of my favorite words: 
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While We’re on the Holiday Theme:
Department of Not Passing the Holiday Breathalyzer Test
Fruitcake for the Holidays: A Special Recipe 
– one cup each of water and white table sugar
– four large eggs
– two cups of dried fruit
– one teaspoon baking soda
– one teaspoon salt
– one cup brown sugar
– lemon juice
– one bottle of whisky
Get out a large mixing bowl. To ensure whiskey is the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink. Repeat.
Turn on the electric mixer; beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar and beat again.
Make sure the whisky is still okay. Cry another tup. Turn off the mixer. Break two leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried furit. Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets tuck in the beaterers pry it loose with a drewscriver.
Sample the whisky to check for tonsisticity. Next, sift two cups of salt. Or something. Who cares? Check the whisky. Now sift the lemon juice and strain the nuts. Add one table. Spoon. Of sugar or something. Whatever you can find.
Grease the oven. Turn the cake tin to 350 degrees. Don’t forget to beat off the turner. Throw the bowl out of the window, check the whisky again and go to bed.
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By the end of this day, publicity-shy moiself will have survived enjoyed another public appearance re The Mighty Quinn, this one involving a reading and Q & A session with thirty-to-forty 4th – 8th graders at the Hillsboro Boys & Girls Club. If only I had some fruitcake to see me through the ordeal.
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The Department of Not Holding My Breath…
In this case I’m not holding it for an apology  from anyone else in the paranoid conservative talk show radio foghorns media, now that the House Intelligence Report on Benghazi has been released.
Brian Joyce, one member of the talk show radio host contingent, wrote a persuasive and seemingly heartfelt apology. I wonder what we’ll hear from the rest of his colleagues?
We told you the President was covering up what happened in Benghazi. We told you the President didn’t have a “shred of integrity” on Benghazi. We told you the President was providing “cover” for the terrorists who killed four Americans in Benghazi. We told you that the President could have helped the four Americans who were killed in Benghazi, but instead ordered the military to “stand down.” Heck, we even told you the President’s Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, faked a concussion just to avoid testifying on Benghazi!
And after two years of trying our best to convince you that all these things were true, it turns out that we, the media, were the ones who were lying.
To those members of the media – specifically, the unmedicated, verbal crap-wiping legion of Fox News-parroting twitclowns – who created the nonexistent “cover-up” of the Benghazi attack, this Asshat of the Week award is for you.
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Dateline: Last week. Scenario: offspring (Belle and K) are home for Thanksgiving break. Belle wanted me to run some errands with her after I was done exercising. After completing my workout I showered and dressed, and as I exited my room, Belle eyed my shirt and gasped.
“Is that velvet? Velvet and plaid?”
I nodded, and let her caress my sleeve.
“Oh, wow,” she said. “It’s like the 90s all rolled into one.”
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Department of What If
What if the paper towel dispensers in public restrooms were not motion-activated, but rather emotion-activated? It wouldn’t be enough to need to dry your hands – you’d have to really, really, demonstrably, want to dry your hands.
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As my birthday approaches, I’m going to step out of my comfort zone  and reveal something personal. Not only have I never (successfully) played a musical instrument,  it has been said (by moiself) that you could inscribe my innate musical ability on the tip of my pinkie finger and still have room for the Declaration of Independence.
Another little-known personal fact: despite my lack of musical talent, I have demonstrated perfect pitch. I once threw an accordion in a dumpster, where it landed on a vuvuzela.
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May all your pitches strive for such perfection, and may the holiday hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 If you fail to see the resemblance, a little more eggnog might do the trick.
 Y’all know the rules, about the ch- pronunciation, right?
 That would be spatula.
 Too many people, most of them fruitcake recipe testers (hic), I imagine, claim credit for this recipe, so I’ll leave attribution to the Collective Consciousness of Christmas Culture.
 Or even explanation for their fear-mongering slathering passing as “investigative concern.”
 I hate that phrase – “comfort zone.” Just typing it makes me feel like a slimy mattress salesman with an ill-fitting toupee.
 Being the leader of my high school’s AWMKB (All Women’s Marching Kazoo Band) doesn’t count.