So, this is Christ-mass. Indeed. I have these many years upon your world struggled to come to a communion with this massive concept of Christymas, and have yet to accomplish much in the way of headward progress— she is a thorny issue, to be sure, and I feel that my meditations— well, after last year's somewhat troubled attempt at good-works, I've chosen to take a rather "manipulators off" approach for this annum, and simply meditate upon the Hollied Day, and its meaning, privately and without spectacle.

I have subsequently opened my column of this week and enlisted my lab assistant, Rob, to gather and present, in this public venue, the following Hollied Day greetings and aphorisms from we, the staff of this fair Poor Mojo's Almanac(k):

Rob Miller, Lab Assistant:

OK, so I was watching that It's a Wonderful Life flick, the one with Jimmy Stewart in it, the other night and tripping balls on these two tabs of "synthetic mescaline"— which I don't believe in for, like, a sec, by the way. As far as I figure, it's all just chemicals you're dumping on your brain, right, and so it's either mescaline or it ain't— I mean, shit, like, my roomie Suveer takes a glass of water, right— he showed me this shit last month when he was explaining what the fuck a fuel cell is— and he hooks a 9 volt battery up to a couple paper clips and dangles 'em in the water and little bubbles start gathering on them, on account the electricity is breaking the H-2-O down into H and O— dig this?— and then say you gather all those little bubbles up and then put 'em in a jar and shake it up so they link back up into water (Suveer didn't do this part, on account it wasn't part of explaining about the fuel cells, but I figure this is what you could do), well, you wouldn't call that water "synthetic water" would you? No fucking way— it's just water, it's made out of the water chemicals, and so that's what it is: water.

So, yeah, I'm out of my gourd on these two tabs of "synthetic mesc" and I'm watching It's a Wonderful Life, and, you know, just, like, totally grokking the fucker, just way into it, and then I like— BAMN!— am dozed off or something, 'cause I'm having this wicked vivid dream where that twinkling Clarence light is talking to me, not Jimmy Stewart, but me, and he's all like "Rob, dude, don't jump," and I'm all like "what the fuck are you talking about?" and— BAMN!— I'm suddenly totally live to the fact that I'm balanced like a circus dude, right on the hand rail of this bridge, and the water is just roaring by, underneath, even though it's frozen solid, and it's all misty and shit and I'm like "Clarence, dude, the world would totally be better off without Rob Miller!" and Clarence is like "No way, dude; you totally gotta check out what the Rob Miller-less universe is like!"

And, suddenly, I'm all spun around and— BAMN!— I'm, like, in the cloud city— it's Detroit, but shit is clean and the buildings are all skyscrapers and the skyscrapers are all, like, that space needle casino that looks just like the space needle in Seattle that's just like that space needle in Toronto, and there are these moving sidewalks— like in Vegas— and I'm just being whisked along through, like, the Detroit of tomorrow, accept I see a big, like, giganto newspaper billboard, and it totally says "Dec 22 2003." And I'm looking, over the handrail and shit, and the city is totally diverse and multiethnic and everyone is wearing turbans and jumpsuits and got rings around their necks and are flying around in these little hover-saucers dealies that, when they get out, fold up into, like, a briefcase, and everyone is all smiles and jet packs and up in the sky are these giganto, like, Jurassic Park lizard birds, and there's this mom— this totally MILF of a mom, right? In this hoopy-60s-meets-the-spaceage-mini-skirt— and she's got her kid, but she ain't carrying it, on account she's being tailed by this floating, whirring robot servant nanny, who's also walking the dog and carrying the groceries, and the mom is all smiles and the baby is all smiles, and then they all— all three, the robot and the mom and the baby— they all look at me and the mom— who is just so fucking totally bombers hot you would just like cream your pants if I could even start to explain what she looked like— she gets this look on her face like she just stepped in dog shit, and the baby starts bawling, and even the robot scowls at me, and I hear Clarence muttering some shit like, "Fuck-o! 22,000 of these 'this is the world without you' gigs, and this one is totally the first one where the world is so much fucking better. Fucked. Up." And I'm all, like, damn and then

SNAP!

I'm awake and just feeling like such total shit.

So, all I really wanna say is I'm Sorry, dudes. I'm totally sorry that I was born and fucked up the flying space cars and robot shit that all-y'all woulda had if there'd never been a Rob Miller, Jr. (which is me, on account my Pops is Rob the Miller Numero Uno.) So, yeah, Holiday Apologies all around. Merry New Year and shit.

Sang Hsien, Lab Director:

Lord Architeuthis, sir. I am so sorry. I am busy.

Three Wise Crabs, Gnomic Advisors:

We wish you a Merry Christmas,
We wish you a merry X-Man,
We bash you across the X-man!
And on to Navy Pier...

Bad Tidings We Bring,
For you and the King,
Bad Tidings for Elvis,
Dead, dying, and tears.

Cringle Bells,
Tylenol hell,
Smashing all the day,
Robots rule,
King Crab Gruel,
And make him swim the Bay, Hey!

Tinkle Smells,
Chocolate bells,
Blasting turnip Fey,

Kill.

Molly Reynolds, Intern:

What, sorry? Rob, are you making this up? Is answering this really part of my job, or just another weird romantic overture? Rob?

The Spider Bros., Devo and Spider Ramirez, Mechanicals Extraordinaire:

[In Unison] Merry X-Mas!

Goat Ramirez, The Other Brother Ramirez and Mechanic As Well:

Feliz Navidad, bay-bee!

Barnabus and Claude, Leader and Lieutenant of the Belgian Chimps:

Nous voudrions remercier Santa Jésus du grand avantage de travailler dans ces états fins unis. Ce centre de la Renaissance de Detroit est un Eden parmi Edens, à la différence du chien monté, rues dégoûtantes de Paris. Nous crachons notre broche collective sur Paris, et embrassons cette ville grande des moteurs avec ouvert arms.

Dave Nelson, Editor and Technologist:

At this Gentile Year's End, I'd like to take a moment to thank Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, without whom all of this would have turned out more-or-less the same— except for the other night, when I hit this deer with my car out on M-52, and wound up bogged down in Farmer Johns fucking mud-ass fallow corn field, and Jesus was the only fucker who would actually give me a ride into Manchester, even though, like, a million fucking people stopped to see if I was OK. Only Jesus would actually give me a lift. I would have been totally fucked without Jesus then; it was cold as hell. Jesus definitely saved my ass.

Morgan Johnson, Editor and Black Ops; Manager of the West Coast Branch:

I'd like to thank my friends and family, for pretty much being my friends and family. I'd like to thank the readers of this site for reading and writing, and for sending the death threats and fruit baskets. And a big 'fuck yeah!' shout out to the guy who sent the death threat on the fuckin' fruit basket, 'cause that was just a really sweet and thoughtful way to receive notice of the fatwa.

Fritz Swanson, Editor and Man About Town:

What, this isn't about me?

Three Wise Crabs, redux:

Dashing through the nose
of the man made out of clay,
all the screams unfold,
clawing all the way,
feel the starshine burn
upon your feral hide,
oh what pain it is to go a slaying all tonight!

Mr. Leeks, a CPA:

I would, uh . . . yes, I would simply like to wish a Merry Christmas to all.

Tom Olafsdottir, Former Lab Assistant and Discorporate Holiday Spirit:

Yeah, and to all a fucking good night, ass-weasles!