Humor
Got a Ridiculous Christmas Story? Here’s Mine
The following story never seems to surprise my wife.
Heck.
If you lived with this chronic curmudgeon it probably wouldn’t surprise you either.
The Ridiculous Story
Peg me at five years old. Circa, thirty days out from Christmas 1976.
Bright blond hair. Thin as a ski pole. A hand on the hip and a goofy grin.
That’s me.
Dad walks into my room. Smiles. “Whatcha want for Christmas, Demian?”
I put the blocks down and slowly climb to my feet, hand to chin. “Box of mud, of course.”
“A box of-of what?”
“A box of mud.”
I sit back down to play with my blocks again. Dad finally backs out of the room.
Two days later he and mom drop the question at the dinner table. “Whatcha want for Christmas, sport?”
I stop chewing my mashed potatoes. “A box of mud, of course.”
“See,” my dad says to my mom.
Three days later I’m taking a bubble bath. My head is lost in a mountain of strawberry-scented Johnson and Johnson bubbles. Mom knocks on the door.
“Honey. What do you want for Christmas?”
I slowly pretend to paint the wall with bubbles. “A box of mud,” I shout.
She doesn’t give up. “Are you sure?”
I don’t say anything.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“What did you say?”
“Yep!”
Two days from Christmas. Dad is waiting for me at the back door. I push through, plop on the ground and start to peel off my boots.
“Still want that box of mud?”
“Yep.”
Christmas morning. My sister and I charge downstairs in our underoos. We are told to march back up stairs to put on pajamas. We obey and run back down the steps.
Gifts are handed out. I finally get mine. It’s as heavy as an armored tank. Or four gallons of jet fuel. Or a rifle.
I massacred the wrapping and fling open the lid and find nothing but old fashion backyard mud.
In a box.
Rocking back and forth on his feet, dad says, “Whatcha think, sport?” He smiles.
Mom and dad say I went white. That’s true. What they didn’t know was that I’d also stopped breathing. Broke out in a cold sweat. And was on the verge of sobbing.
Naturally mom couldn’t bear to let her son suffer so she pulled out my other gifts.
I unwrapped them in a complete stupor. To be honest, I don’t remember those OTHER gifts. All I remember is my box of mud.
And that I’d actually gotten it.
Your Turn
Okay. I’m looking for your ridiculous Christmas stories. They can be last years. Or from your childhood. It can be about somebody you know. It doesn’t matter. Just share it. Merry Christmas Eve, folks!
Follow Me on Twitter While I’m Faraway
Rolling crackers and wearing short red shorts was always something I enjoyed enormously.
Sigh. Nostalgia sucks.
Anyway. I’m walking out the door to climb unto a bus and drive through the night until we reach some small city near New Orleans.
I might sleep, cramped on a cold pleather seat. Or read. I like reading. I like sleeping. So either scenario works for me.
One thing I won’t be doing is blogging. Tonight. Tomorrow. Saturday. Sunday. Monday. Or Tuesday.
My lap top is staying home.
Besides, I do believe the next five days are loaded front and back with activities designed to manufacture fatigue.
In other words, long days like the good children in China’s factories know so well.
Resist the temptation to weep: My blog post on the Reformers, the Trinity, will have to wait.
Until then, you can do this: Follow my adventures on Twitter.
I do have my phone. And I do have a million minutes. And I’m going to use every bit of them. Photos included. Direct message me via Twitter to say hello. I’d love it.
Also, drop me a comment. Show me that I’m loved. [Writer egos are so fragile, I know.]
And, please, pray. Those people are crazy.
Nurturing Fame: Marcel Duchamp’s Unorthodox Approach
Stranger things have happened.
On Tuesday social media consultant Chris Brogan challenged us to think out loud with him on his idea of microfame.
If I’ve got Brogan right, microfame is nothing more than popularity within a small context.
High school, for example. Or maybe church.
Brogan’s example was a business network. And niche bloggers.
He asked some challenging questions. And was looking for profound debate.
I, however, after reading Brogan’s post, couldn’t get the French artist Marcel Duchamp out of my head. And the comical, unorthodox methods he used to nurture fame.
See, a couple of years ago I read a number of biographies and articles on Duchamp’s life. But it didn’t take me long to notice something stunning about Duchamp: he used obscurity to promote his career.
So, in honor of Marcel, Brogan, you, and all our tiny little quests for micro fame, let me share with you some of the more unconventional methods Duchamp used to nurture his fame.
Make Obscure Statements
Duchamp excelled in obscure art. He also excelled in obscure statements. Case in point:
“I have forced myself to contradict myself in order to avoid conforming to my own taste.”
You sort of kind of know what he’s talking about. But not really. Yet, no doubt a little cottage industry of Duchamp junkies have deconstructed this statement ad infinitum.
Take Away: Mumble. Don’t look people in the eye when you speak. And for goodness sake never say anything the common person can understand.
Be (Slightly) Unpredictable
You. Me. Chris Brogan. Archie Mckinlay. Were all bewitched by the loose cannon.
Marcel Duchamp–who was an aspiring painter at this time–submitted a urinal into an art competition with the words “R. Mutt” painted in black on the side.
That’s something the committee didn’t expect.
Take Away: Now, it’s debatable whether our fascination with unpredictability is a healthy fascination or not. And seriously questionable whether you should cultivate such a habit.
But look at it this way. What if you surprised your wife by taking the day off of work and pampering her with a day of shopping? My wife would need a few minutes to recover from the shock.
Avoid Media Exposure, Interviews
Naturally, a recluse who refuses interviews and publicity is mysterious and compelling. Weird. Especially if he’s famous.
Just look at J. D. Salinger.
On a micro level, when Merlin Marvin kicked off his Twitter sabbatical, I was drawn curiously to his Twitter page ten times more often just to see if he’d come back. And I was on his blog more than I was before.
Absurd, I know.
Take Away: Well, I think you actually need to be famous have people calling you for interviews first for this to work. I’m not there. I have no advice for you.
Don’t Comment on Your Own Work
Duchamp had a personal policy to avoid explaining his art to others. His reason? He didn’t want to interfere with their interpretation.
What always happened was an enormous firestorm of combative discussions erupted. And his reputation, on each new piece of art, spread rapidly.
Take Away: Refuse to explain yourself. Say things like, “I said what I said.” In addition, launch books, papers or blog posts on half-baked ideas–just like Brogan did–and let the people run with it. 
Grant Small-Time, Occasional Interviews
Duchamp liked to frustrate the elite. The stuffy. He said of the typical artist:
The individual, man as a man, man as a brain, if you like, interests me more than what he makes, because I’ve noticed that most artists only repeat themselves.
He also demonstrated this snobbery to the media. Shunning the big papers, Duchamp would surprise the press–thus employing unpredictability–by allowing a small, no-name magazine to interview him.
Take Away: If you’re like me–with little to no micro-fame–small-time interviews is about all you can grant. In truth, I’d be grateful for an interview with a warm body.
The Larger Take-Away: Duchamp Is Dead
You’re probably wondering why a blog devoted to living a vivid, meaningful Christian life is toying with ideas like fame and people like Marcel Duchamp.
Here’s where I’m going with this: Humility is a core virtue for Christianity. And at odds with fame. Brogan summed it up well:
“So for anyone kind enough to call me famous, I appreciate the mindset, but I’m hoping to be trusted, respected, and to be worthy of your time. That’s my daily goal.”
Listen: A servant’s heart and an attitude of humility are the true measures we should be after. Because microfame–in fact, all fame–is fleeting in a perishing world.
Duchamp died. People pretty much say he’s weird. You will die. What is it you want people to say about you? Now get back to work.
101 Reasons Why It Doesn’t Pay to Be an Intellectual Snob
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Self-Portrait, Yawn | Ducreux
Admit it: you’re a snob. An intellectual snob.
Just like me.
Do you curl your lip at Harry Potter books? Does American Idol make your stomach churn?
Do you tend to spend your time on ideas and projects devoid of practical value. . .but replete with entertaining possibilities?
If so, then yes. . .you are an intellectual snob.
It’s okay. We still love you.
What Is an Intellectual Snob?
An intellectual snob is not defined by income, class, or sex. An intellectual snob is defined by superior thoughts, words and deeds.
Relish it. [I do.]
But although flaunting and mocking, this raunchy upper-crust sensibility does have it’s drawbacks.
101 to be exact. Possibly more. That’s where you come in.
After you’ve scanned this list, leave your own example of the pain asserting your ascendancy over your friends and family’s caused you.
Trust me: It’ll be cathartic.
Now. . .step up for big dividends in the giddy heights of snobbish mockery.
1. I make an easy target for low-brows.
2. Chokes on his own spit when offered a ride in a dualie.
3. Weakness for irrationality.
4. Can experience rage and jubilation over the same statement. Depending on who said. [See no. 100.]
5. Snobs aren’t easy to buy for. Especially clothes. [You'll see why in a minute.]
6. Reclining in the college library reading Baudelaire aloud labels you. Quickly.
7. Unexpected and protracted engagements in the search for a superior moral justification of intellectual snobbishness while in the bathroom.
8. People ask you boring questions like, “What were you doing in the bathroom for so long?”
9. People avoid you because you give rude answers.
10. I involuntarily sneer when someone says something stupid.
11. I involuntarily vomit when someone says, “There’s no such thing as a stupid question.”
12. I own the same set of clothes for the last six years.
13. I don’t care that I own the same set of clothes for the last six years.
14. I can have a set of clothing for everyday of the week. . .like a uniform.
15. I read everything. Especially when people are talking to me.
16. I throw vicious fits when someone doesn’t understand what I say.
17. I throw vicious fits when someone criticisizes me for mumbling.
18. People misunderstand me all the time. For example, I cruise blogs and whip off comments that make me seem like a curmudgeon even though all I’m doing is making jest with a good heart. Get it?
19. I get all bent out of shape when someone says they read 100 books last year. Now, I have to read 101 this year.
20. I don’t have a lick of common sense.
21. Couldn’t balance a check book to save my life.
22. My wife wants to vomit every time I string the words “intellectual” and “snob” in the same sentence.
23. Intellectual snobbery makes for a bad love life. [See no. 22.]
24. Involuntarily shriek when I watch Oprah.
25. Didn’t realize how impolite it was to applaud when Jonathan Frazen rejected Oprah’s Book Club.
26. Name dropping Russell or Wittgenstein at a Kentucky cocktail party stops conversations cold.
27. Party-goers usually see my nose in a book during festivities as a vicious, personal attack on their character. [It's not. Entirely.]
28. Non-intellectual snobs don’t trust me.
29. Forget trying to find my car keys. . .where’s my car?
30. Unintentional, violent laughter when someone says they were reading Reader’s Digest. “Reading, really?”
31. I play chess by myself. All the time.
32. Hurt awfully bad when friends reject my overtures to play a round of sudoku.
33. Women giggle when I mention I want to be a member of Mensa.
34. I butcher the more prestigious words in the English language because pronunciation isn’t nearly as important as simply knowing a big word.
35. My wife vomits when I mention I butcher a prestigious word in the English language.
36. Generally ignored at dinner parties. [And by Mensa. Which hurts. Bad.]
37. No one to share my obsession for the encyclopedia with.
38. Most people don’t consider knowing who the last 8 Nobel Prize in Literature winners important.
39. Been accused of wanting to be a transvestite because I want to join Mensa.
40. Saying Hieronomyous Bosch was the best Flemish painter who ever lived at a Nascar event usually gets me killed.
41. Regarding madness as a virtue sours my relationships with my psychiatrists. All 37 of them.
42. Name dropping Michel Foucault or John Frame can quiet the crowd at any Christian coffee shop and put their eyes on you.
43. Simple tasks become enormous mind jobs because I’m incapable of seeing at that level. [The practical level, that is.]
44. My worst nightmare is that someone will call me stupid. I couldn’t bear it. At all.
45. Saying you’re “in a state” after drinking a bottle of porter isn’t funny to anyone. Including your wife.
46. Said wife vomits when I make these bad jokes.
47. Considers the use of the word “verbage” an impeachable offense.
48. Madly in love with reversible, monogrammed, stripe-motif smoking jackets when everyone else isn’t.
49. Often confuses the doctrine of predestination and it’s baggage to mean that I’m chosen to be smarter than most people.
50. I go nuts when I meet people even marginally smarter than me.
51. Am the only one who finds unending comfort in correcting lax theology, vulgar spirituality and crass emotions.
52. Am alone. A lot.
53. Constantly tweaking my list of “top 10 books every child should read before bedtime” during dinner ruins lots of potentially beautiful moments.
54. Bewildered by fashion creeds like “socks must match your pants.”
55. Doesn’t understand his wife’s resistance to giving Dante’s Inferno to his 7-year-old daughter.
56. Tormented by my secret love for Enid Blyton books.
57. Can’t sleep at night when I discover that someone with brains doing the unthinkable: watching Big Brother.
58. I unexpectedly insult family when I comment about their slide into stupidity.
59. Flesh ripples in a good way when someone calls me a condescending snit.
60. Has to be constantly reminded that “white trash” is a bad word.
61. I’m poor.
62. I’m accused of being a socialist or communist all the time. [I believe in capitalism. I just can't figure out the profit-making part.]
63. Rickety and tempermental relationship with money: I hate it when I got it. I hate it when I don’t.
64. My wife vomits when I say, “I hate money.”
65. Easily embarrassed by Bette Midler and Barbra Steisand.
66. Easily embarrassed by MTV videos of “Do They Know It’s Christmas?“
67. Carelessly lumped in with the likes of Hillary Clinton and Lizzie Grubman.
68. I didn’t realize people would get up in arms over a little book burning.
69. The Shack? Really.
70. Can’t shake the view that heaven is an endless library. . .and hell a tiny library full of endless airbags.
71. Capable of carrying around the same $100’s cause I’m afraid to spend it.
72. Seized with anxiety when standing in front of a pair of $14 jeans.
73. Buyer’s remorse looms for days on small purchases. Lasts weeks on larger purchases. . .like a microwave.
74. Look! My jeans are fine. They do their job–covering my legs. Who cares that their faded and paper-thin?
75. Thinks re-working the same seveteen lines of a poem forty times a legitimate way to relax.
76. Partial to words like “abrogate,” “derogate” and “abdicate.”
77. Gets a sick, enslaving kick out of watching the mental gymnastics necessary for people to comprehend abrogate, derogate and abdicate.
78. Heavy reliance on phrases like “without a brain.”
79. Dates with my beloved are punctuated with moments where I suddenly put down my knife and fork, gasp, strike my head with my head, lean forward and say, “Angie, I think I’ve just had an afflatus!”
80. Fond of near-crippling psychological disorders. In other people.
81. Find it impossible to enjoy a good weepie like Australia. My beloved finds me impossible.
82. Finds a movie like Wall-E unrealistic and absurd and impossible to believe. Yet, funny.
83. Doesn’t get a lot support in my theory that sports are merely an outlet for intellegent people to behave like brainless people. [See no. 78]
84. Supports the idea that the habit of getting excited and screaming for no good reason creates a momentary bubble of ignorance.
85. Shocked to learn that non-intellectuals don’t actually sleep with their sisters.
86. Once caught in a bikers’ rally wearing a bow tie. [All I did was walk out of the St. Louis Art museum. Just kidding.]
87. Habit of weeping in non-sentimental environments like the barber’s.
88. Will support universal health care only if it involves free haircuts.
89. Hyper interested in learning words I’ve never heard of and using them in ways that will gorgonize my friends beyond measure.
90. One day tried to teach a vulture how to sing “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” [How do you think I come up with my big ideas, eh?]
91. Knew this intellectual snobbery thing wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be when I spent half a night at a party talking to Nurse Bob about the unbearable lightness of being.
92. Encourages his children to use obscure. . .sometimes preposterous. . .words for no other purpose than to confuse their peers.
93. Visibly appalled at linguistic deformities like “breffus” and “lassitive.”
94. Had a bleaker understanding of human nature and fewer friends after reading Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People.
95. Wonders why more people don’t consider watching small-minded people trapped inside a retail store entertainment.
96. Still doesn’t know why Nick Hornsby got so excited when I offered to come along for the ride. The ride being the travail that is Nick taking his autistic son to the park.
97. Makes enemies faster than he makes friends. [See no. 94. Or 95. Or 98.]
98. Not encouraged–at all–in his dreams to engineer a situation in which he could call someone an “impotent, conceited, obscene, hairy-buttocked toad.”
99. Has a murdeously uphill battle convincing people that there isn’t much difference between visiting a morgue and some Methodist churches.
100. Mildly amused when someone calls me a repellant, smarmy, wooden-headed contrarian. Contrarian being the operative word.
101. Am alone. A lot.
Your Turn
Don’t be shy. I know that humility is nothing more than a disguise for an enormous ego bristling to demonstrate its superiority.
Flaunt away. I did.
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