On my last post the question of how do we celebrate the holidays in New Prussia? This is an excellent question. While the holidays in New Prussia have yet to be fully defined, several traditions have so far emerged. One, much ale and mead are drunk up by the populace. Good, thick Prussian ale, stolen from Belgium. Two, there is no Father Christmas in Prussia, there is however, somebody much better and much more loved by all. A being so great and majestic and so revered and benevolent it is hard to even imagine. I speak of course of Papa Czar. He has a big Russian hat and rides a war horse instead and wears a cloak. On Christmas Eve he goes around and rewards all good Prussian children with swords, muskets, bayonets, shields, armor and other neat weapons to help them take part in their great Prussian heritage. Which leads us to tradition three, the Yule Time Conquest, where everyone gathers along the border of France, hurls insults at them, and then we recreate the many conquests we have had over them. Afterwards we return home to more Ale. This sounds like a fine holiday to me and one any good citizen of Prussia would enjoy.
And Now...
More Great Moments in OCD History:
1. I was at the nursing home Christmas party a few days ago when this peculiar festive obsession occurred. They were serving punch out of a bowl with a large dipper. (Or is that ladle?) Anyways, I noticed the guy pouring punch out missed the cup and poured it all over his hand. This would have been okay except the fact his hand was over the punch bowl and it all trickled down over his fingers and back into the punch bowl. This guy was the program director and was setting up tables and chairs and shaking hands with people earlier as well. Needless to say this turned the punch into a seething stew of virulent infections. A moment later my Dad asks me if I wanted punch. Despite all odds I went ahead and said yes. Anxiety set in but I had just eaten and needed a drink so I decided to just ignore it. Anxiety set in immediatly as my dad brought back the festering cup of plague and set it before me. I swallowed hard, picked it up and drank it down. I'm waiting for the toxicology report to come back and tell me how many diseases I have.
2. This is something I think it hilarious and tragic and all rolled up together. As some of you know, I was working at Sears for a little while. Well, what you may not know was that it was in the vacuum department. Now people with OCD often have a thing about floors and dirt and germs. Think of all the junk on floors, all the dirty shoes walking across it, all the bugs and in our case mice, around. Think of all the nasty junk collected in vacuums and here I am, OCD boy being asked to demo and sale Vacuums! This included pouring dirt out, vacuuming it up, picking stuff out of the beater bar when it jammed (GROSS!) and unclogging vacuums brought back in (Equally as Gross). Every day after work I would scrub my hands down like a surgeon. Needless to say it was a trying experience but oh, the irony of it all! I'm surprised I made it as long as I did.
Well everyone, that's about all I have for now. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all. Screw Kwanza
P.S. Here is a picture of Papa Czar.
2 comments:
props to you for ignoring the bad voices!!!!! Seriously
xlcuouc
Funny, the mental image I had when you were describing the punch bowl incident. You were standing there, laughing, joking, ever the eloquent raconteur regaling your peers with tales of Old Prussia and the glories yet to come....when finally your throat began to crack, as the hours of storytelling and lightly salted snacks took their toll. You gazed around the room looking for refreshment, your eyes finally settling on a veritable ocean of fruit-laden Rainow Sherbet-y goodness. As you began to make your way through the crowd toward the holiday libation, the scene suddenly slows down. You see the program director pick up the serving ladle and fill it to overflowing, punch spilling out over the edges, clearly too much for the slight indentation that passes for a serving spout, and begin to tip, tip, tip the ladle towards his Dixie cup. Your eyes lock and zoom in on the liquid sloshing around in the spoon, the slow-motion of the moment causing the punch to appear grotesquely viscous, like a pudding left out in the sun. Over the sound of the program director's obtuse laugh, your suddenly enhanced hearing picks out the sounds of millions of droplets of punch crying out in exultation in anticipation of their imminent freedom from the bonds of molecular cohesion. You race toward the distracted program director, intent on averting the disaster you foresee, but, serenely ignorant of the situation, the PD continues to pour himself a glass of punch. With the ladle tipped and gravity in effect, the drink turns into a miniature waterfall of delicious fruitiness, pouring into the upheld glass and all over the outstretched and thoroughly unwashed hand of the warm, welcoming, hand-shaking program director. All at once, you return to real-time, sinking to your knees and crying out as millions of punch-soaked bacteria are happily washed off of the PD's hand and into the large bowl of what is soon to become a bacterial orgy of Roman proportions. The people around you stop talking and stare in befuddlement at the emotional wreck of a man who has seen too much for his own good.
Man, that's a good picture.
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