[stylist] Oh Christmas Tree/Re: Holiday exercise, part 1: Schmanta Claus

Fri Dec 9 16:08:48 UTC 2011

What a cool, funny  parody on the Christmas Tree song. I loved that.

Brad

On 12/9/2011  09:34 AM Jacobson, Shawn D said...
>Chris
>
>Loved it.  I can't think of anything to 
>change.  I'm not sure that Santa came from Pagan 
>rituals.  I thought Santa derived from Saint 
>Nicholas who was a 5th century saint in what is 
>now Turkey.  However, that is of no consequence to the story.
>
>Right now I'm reading David Sedaris' "Holidays 
>on Ice" which has a piece about working as an 
>elf at Macy's.  It covers some of the same 
>ground.  You might find that interesting.
>
>I've kind of been drawing a blank thus far.  So 
>here's something small, a parody of "Oh Christmas Tree" that you might enjoy.
>
>Oh Artificial Christmas Tree
>
>Oh artificial Christmas tree
>Your leaves are made of plastic.
>Oh artificial Christmas tree
>You drive the purist spastic.
>You come in green like trees we know
>Or white with artificial snow.
>Oh artificial Christmas tree
>Your leaves are made of plastic.
>
>Oh artificial Christmas tree
>Assembly required.
>Oh artificial Christmas tree
>Jury-rigged and haywired
>I screwed the duhicky in wrong
>And now the branches won't stay on.
>Oh artificial Christmas tree
>Assembly required.
>
>Oh artificial Christmas tree
>The fire marshal's livid.
>Oh artificial Christmas tree
>You toxic flames are vivid.
>Our house looks like a flaming Hell
>Guess we'll be found at a hotel.
>Oh artificial Christmas tree
>The fire marshal's livid.
>
>Shawn
>
>-----Original Message-----
>From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org 
>[mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris Kuell
>Sent: Friday, December 09, 2011 9:54 AM
>To: Writer's Division Mailing List
>Subject: [stylist] Holiday exercise, part 1: Schmanta Claus
>
>Here's my first submission for the exercise--1400 words. I'm planning on
>another, maybe 2, depending on how satisfied I am with the work. All
>comments, suggestions, fan and hate mail are welcomed.
>
>
>
>Schmanta Claus
>
>By Chris Kuell
>
>
>Irving Nusinowitz shoveled another spoonful of lukewarm oatmeal down his
>throat. The taste was bland, a dull beige, perfectly mimicking his mood.
>
>His wife, Helen, was jabbering about the fur coat Sylvia Goldbass was
>wearing at Temple Saturday night. Something about her nephew Maury knows a
>guy in the city and got her such a deal. She turned and scowled at him.
>""Irving, why the sour puss?"
>
>Without responding, he looked at her. Thirty-four years of marriage allowed
>Helen to read his thoughts through that look.
>"Listen, Irv, it's only for a short time. You've been outta work for
>nine-months now, and we really need the money. Winter is here, and we need
>oil to heat this place. The kids and our seven grandchildren are coming for
>Hanukah, and I don't want them worrying about us."
>
>Irving dipped his head and forced another spoonful of mush into his mouth.
>Helen took the kitchen chair next to him and spoke softly. "I prayed for God
>to help us find money to make it through the holidays. He works in
>mysterious ways, Irving. Swallow your pride and do a good job. It's only for
>a month. "
>
>Irving pushed his chair away from the table and stood to go. Sylvia used a
>napkin to remove a glob of oatmeal from his thick, white beard before
>hugging him good-bye and handing him a sack lunch. She offered him a few
>more words of encouragement as he buttoned up his overcoat and left the
>house for whatever the day wood bring.
>
>Parked a half-hour later at the Mall, he took a long swig out of the pint he
>kept in the glove box. Unemployment had not been easy for the 58-year-old
>ex-accountant. He grabbed his Dunkin Donuts coffee and his canvas bag and
>locked up.
>
>Inside the security office at the Mall was a nice changing room and a locker
>where he could store his clothes. Irving was afraid Mr. Connor, the man who
>had hired him, might smell the gin on his breath, but he quickly reassured
>himself that the coffee would cover it up and he changed. The silly pants
>were elastic at the waist at least, so they could close around his 62-inch
>girth. The red jacket was also tight, and the cheap nylon fabric was
>probably going to give him hives. He buckled the wide, black belt, which was
>vinyl instead of leather, and muttered, "And you Goyem are always calling us
>frugal."
>
>The final accessory was the red felt stocking cap, which fit perfectly on
>Irving's snowy head.
>
>Mr. Connors introduced him to Dwayne Thomas, a short black guy dressed up in
>a green elf costume that matched his own in ridiculousness. Elf Dwayne
>smelled like he hadn't had a shower lately, and Mr. Connors was not the
>least bit happy when the elf lit up a Marlboro.
>
>While they walked, Mr. Connors went through his schpeal about proper
>behavior, never telling the kids much of anything, keep it all open ended,
>and push them into pressuring their parents for a photograph.
>
>As Irving took his seat in the large wooden chair in the center of the Mall,
>surrounded by Christmas songs, artificial trees and snow and enough blinking
>lights to illuminate a major US city, he thought back to his bar mitzvah.
>The day he fully embraced his Jewishness and became a man. How far he had
>come, and how low he had sunk, to be sitting here representing a
>capitalistic fantasy to all the bratty little gentile children.
>
>Irving played Santa to 43 children before lunch break. You can take the man
>out of the accounting office, but. 29 were boys; 
>14 girls. Three kids couldn't
>work up the courage to get on his lap, and one cried so much his mother had
>to come and take him away after a grotesque pleading session that made
>Irving want to throw both the kid and his mother into one of the fake snow
>banks.
>
>  For lunch, Irving went back out to his car and polished off the gin with
>his tuna fish sandwich. He ran into Dwayne the Elf as he was walking in, and
>they both had a cigarette before heading back for Act II.
>
>The line of nervous children and cookie-cutter parents depressed Irving as
>he took his throne. The lies about being good, the greed of the brainwashed
>little consumers and the idle promises about bringing lots of toys carried
>on through the afternoon.
>
>Irving's lower back was killing him, his bladder was about to burst and he
>nearly launched a fat little girl onto the white picket fence when she
>pulled hard on his beard, asking, "Is this fake?"
>
>He stood, massaging his sore chin and watched as Dwayne escorted a lone boy
>over to meet Santa. Usually the kids had a cheery, encouraging parent
>observing from outside the picket fence, but this kid was all by himself.
>Irving thought he saw a slight trail of smoke escaping from Dwayne's cupped
>hand as the kid stood before him.
>"Hello, Son. Is your Mommy or Daddy with you today?"
>
>The kid said, "My Mom's shopping at Filene's. I've got a cell phone to call
>her if you try to feel me up or anything like that, so don't even think
>about it."
>
>Taken aback, Irving sat down and stared at the kid. He was maybe
>eight-years-old, had sandy brown hair and reminded him a little of his own
>grandson Samuel.
>"Would you like to sit on Santa's lap, or is that a little too close for
>you?"
>
>"I'll just stand here, if that's OK." He said. "I know you're not Santa
>anyways."
>
>"What kind of attitude is that? Don't you want Santa to bring you lots of
>gifts under your tree come Christmas?"
>
>The kid looked at Irv with sad brown eyes." There won't be any tree this
>Christmas."
>
>"What? No tree? Why not?" Irving asked.
>
>"My Mom and Dad got divorced. My Dad is Jewish, and so is his new
>girlfriend. I'm going to spend Christmas break with him in stupid Denver."
>
>"Well, then, you will be celebrating Hanukah, the Jewish celebration of
>Lights,"" Irving said to the boy.
>
>"Hanukah is stupid. All my friends are home having Christmas. I know Santa
>isn't real, but I'm going to miss out on all the fun stuff." The kid looked
>down and nudged the toe of one boot in the fake snow.
>
>"Santa, Schmanta, that's what I say," Irving told the boy. "Listen, kid. I'm
>going to let you in on a little secret. " Irving lowered his voice and
>motioned for the boy to come closer. The kid took a step closer and pulled
>the cell phone out of his pocket, just to let Santa know he was serious.
>"All of your friends, with their presents and reindeer, are missing the big
>picture. Santa isn't about Christmas at all.  The Christians stole him and a
>lot of other stuff from pagan rituals."
>
>"What's a pagan ritual?" the kid asked.
>
>"That's not important. What is important is to know that Christmas isn't
>about gifts and trees. It's about God, and God's gifts to the world. God
>gave the Christians Jesus, to try to teach them what is important in life,
>love and compassion. The Jews, we don't need Jesus, because we had Moses
>thousands of years before Jesus came along. God gave Moses the gift of the
>commandments, which he shared with us. God gave us these things because he
>loves us, all of us. Doesn't matter if you are Jewish, Christian or one of
>those Hari Krishna's that parade around in their bathrobes at the airport."
>
>The kid contemplated this while Irving continued.
>"Kid, you've got the best of both worlds. You get to experience the rich
>traditions of your Jewish heritage, and visit Denver where I hear the skiing
>is fabulous this year."
>This got a smile out of the youngster.
>"Before you go, I'll bet your Mom will load you down with lots of crap you
>don't need. Just like an early Christmas. In fact, I bet she's out buying
>you all kinds of fun junk that will turn your brain into mush right now."
>A deeper smile rose on the kid's face, and Santa seemed to catch it.
>
>"Santa," Dwayne the Elf called, a wisp of blue smoke escaping from his
>mouth. "We need to move along."
>
>The boy took two steps forward and hugged Irving. He stepped back and said,
>"Bye, Santa."
>
>Irving smiled wide and answered, "Shalom, my friend."
>
>
>
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Brad Dunsé

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