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SECRET SANTA (ergo sum)
Don't listen to the other kids and what they're telling you,
There really is a Santa Claus, if you believe it's true.
They say you've never seen him, not even Christmas Day,
Well, listen little darling, to what I have to say.
You've never seen the hand that lifts the sun up to the sky.
You've never seen the wind that makes the little clouds roll by.
You've never seen sweet Jesus or heard the Angels sing.
You've never seen the elf who paints the leaves in Fall and Spring.
You've never seen the golden gates, of Heaven high above,
And in her arms you only feel the warmth of Mommy's love.
No Santa Clause? Ha, what a laugh! Can't see him? Who's to care?
Can't see the painter in the sky, but still the rainbows there.
No Santa Clause? What silly talk? No Easter Bunny too? No leprechauns? No fairy tales? No dreams that might come true?
I know there is a Santa Claus as sure as roses bloom.
And you can bet on Christmas Eve he'll stand there in your room.
Perhaps he isn't real the way that you and I are real.
Not flesh and blood, but something that, a heart that dreams can feel.
So if they tell you differently, you tell them that you know,
There really is a Santa Claus, Believing makes it so.
SECRET SANTA (AKvetch)
For you AK, Merry Christmas.
http://www.geocities.com/aeranthes/one.html
_____________________________________________________________
Orchid Bloom
Orchid bloom red or gold, what it is you hold.
That both young and old never could have told.
Orchid bloom summer heat or winter cold.
First they called you by the color code.
Red so warm, blue so cold.
Orchid bloom big and small.
They called you Queen above them all.
Orchid bloom strong or weak, they’ll forever seek.
What it is you hide, what it is you keep.
Orchid bloom red or gold, have not they been told
That in time long past it was foretold.
That your mystery you’ll forever hold.
_______________________________________________________________
A PC Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck...
How to live in a world that's politically correct?
His workers no longer would answer to "Elves".
"Vertically Challenged" they were calling themselves.
And labor conditions at the North Pole
Were alleged by the union to stifle the soul.
Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety,
Released to the wilds by the Humane Society.
And equal employment had made it quite clear
That Santa had better not use just reindeer.
So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid,
Were replaced with 4 pigs, and you know that looked stupid!
The runners had been removed from his sleigh;
The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.A.
And people had started to call for the cops
When they heard sled noises coming from their roof-tops.
Second-hand smoke from his pipe had his workers quite frightened.
His fur trimmed red suit was called "Unenlightened."
And to show you the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows,
Rudolf was suing over unauthorized use of his nose
And had gone on Geraldo, in front of the nation,
Demanding millions in over-due compensation.
So, half of the reindeer were gone; and his wife,
Who suddenly said she had enough of this life,
Joined a self-help group, packed, and left in a whiz,
Demanding from now on her title was Ms.
And as for the gifts, why, he'd ne'er had a notion
That making a choice could cause so much commotion.
Nothing of leather, nothing of fur,
Which meant nothing for him. And nothing for her.
Nothing that might be construed to pollute.
Nothing to aim. Nothing to shoot.
Nothing that clamored or made lots of noise.
Nothing for just girls. Or just for the boys.
Nothing that claimed to be gender specific.
Nothing that's warlike or non-pacific.
No candy or sweets...they were bad for the tooth.
Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.
And fairy tales, while not yet forbidden,
Were like Ken and Barbie, better off hidden.
For they raised the hackles of those psychological
Who claimed the only good gift was one ecological.
No baseball, no football...someone could get hurt;
Besides, playing sports exposed kids to dirt.
Dolls were said to be sexist, and should be passe;
And Nintendo would rot your entire brain away.
So Santa just stood there, disheveled, perplexed;
He just could not figure out what to do next.
He tried to be merry, tried to be gay,
But you've got to be careful with that word today.
His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground;
Nothing fully acceptable was to be found.
Something special was needed, a gift that he might
Give to all without angering the left or the right.
A gift that would satisfy, with no indecision,
Each group of people, from every religion;
Every ethnicity, every hue,
Everyone, everywhere...even you.
So here is that gift, it's price beyond worth...
"May you and your loved ones enjoy peace on earth."
SECRET SANTA (BAILEY)
Ruff ruff ruff
Ruff ruff ruff
Ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff
http://www.diamondpaws.mybravenet.com/dogjingle.htm
SECRET SANTA (CASSANDRA)
http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Hills/1197/lanz.html
SECRET SANTA (MMMARY)
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You should be flattered
I'm obsessed with you
Want to do some serious riding?
Let's each head West and find a place to meet.
Your Secret Santa
SECRET SANTA (Cytotekk)
Colleen, I thought I figured out exactly what you wanted for Christmas. Unfortunately when ordering the product I didn't read the whole label very well!
I was hoping for drool, but you'll have to settle for dribble.
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/1585181722/104-8744314-9159100?v=glance
SECRET SANTA (SoxFan)
SoxFan... For all the teasing we do, I happen to know what a kind and giving person you are. In the spirit of your kindness, a donation has been made in your name, benefiting the Make-A-Wish Foundation® of Massachusetts.
May it bring strength and hope to a special a child in your area.
Merry Christmas..
Your Secret Santa
SECRET SANTA (BullNBear52)
Merry Christmas BullNBear
"Children remember"
Scotch tape is all over my hands
and the paper torn in several places
And I continue to wrap, and tape where torn
and Daddy hands me presents, and laughs...........
I make lopsided wreaths with hand tied bows
garlan on one side of the wreath looks much better
and cranberry on the other
With his discerning eyes to grade the attempt
Daddy gives me a thumbs-up, and a hug..............
We have to have cocoa
it helps us get ready to decorate our tree
I get the biggest part at the bottom
Mommy helps on the half above me, and Daddy,
well he is taller, and he puts the ornament on top and strands the beautiful lights.............
Tonight we walked around our neighborhood singing
Our friends, they clap and smile
I forget some of the words
but Daddy smiles and helps me by singing louder
Only Daddy has a voice like that..........
Mommy and I made a whole lot of cookies
some almost look like our Christmas tree
and some are reindeers
Daddy gets to try one to make sure they are good
they are his favorite this year and reminds me to save two for Santa............
I cannot keep my eyes open any more
Mommy kisses me
and Daddy hangs my stocking and carries me to bed
I hope I wake up in time to see Santa
and thank you Daddy
P.S. - I'll never forget.
- Secret Santa
SECRET SANTA (huckleberry)
Maybe Santa will bring you the perfect winter holiday weekend!
http://www.thehuckleberryinn.com/
SECRET SANTA (dropdeadfred)
For someone who
As handsome as you
Who tries to befriend
Those who tease no end
Who stays on IHub many a day
Warm wishes for the holiday
I am sorry I'm not good at the rhyme
And you see I am no poet
But I am sincere
And I hope this will show it.....
WISHING YOU A VERY HAPPY HOLIDAY - AND ALL THE BEST IN '04
SECRET SANTA (gotmilk)
MERRY CHRISTMAS GOTMILK. I got milk! You got Cookies?
Attached sound file
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
[Suppressed Sound Link]
SECRET SANTA (ergo sum)
Twas The Night Before Christmas
From A Cat's Perspective
by Author Unknown
(with apologies to the author of the original non-cat
version of the poem, Clement Clarke Moore)
'Pwas the night before Christmas, in the sleeping cats' house,
Not a feline was stirring - not even a mouse.
Cat stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hope that Santa Paws soon would be there.
The kittens were snuggled in mama cat's bed,
With brothers & sisters curled head-to-head.
And mama cat on her quilt, and I on my mat,
Had just settled into a delicious cat nap.
When out of the yard there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my mat to see what was the matter.
Away to the window, I flew like a flash,
Climbed up the curtains, and pressed my nose to the glass.
And what in the world did my feline eyes see,
But a small golden chariot, pulled by cats just like me!
With a fluffy old driver, so white and so furry,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Purry.
More rapid than rabbits his kitties they came,
And he yowled and meowed, calling each cat by name.
"On Slippers, On Sneakers, On Bigfoot, On Spats!
Christmas is coming, lets go gentle cats!"
Now, White Sox, Now, Bootsie, Let's go Gloves & Mittens!
To the back porch we do fly! Let's go cats and kittens!
So down to the cat door, his kittens they flew,
With a catnip filled chariot - & Santa Paws too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the latch,
The paws & clawing of Santa Paws scratch.
As I sniffed around for his scent and looked all around,
Through the cat door Santa Paws came with a bound!
His eyes how they sparkled, his whiskers, how merry!
His cheeks were like marshmallows, his pink nose like a cherry!
His little cat mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the fur on his paws was as white as the snow.
He meowed not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, and turned with a jerk.
Then washing his whiskers, his ears, coat & tail,
After having a snack, out the cat door he sailed.
He jumped in his chariot, to his team gave a yowl,
And away they all flew, like nine cats on the prowl.
But I heard him meow, as he drove out of sight,
"Meowy Christmas to all, & to all a good night!"
Milo's thoughts of Night before Christmas
SECRET SANTA (ergo sum)
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, certainly no mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hope they'd be filled with good things to share;
The people were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Christmas danced in their heads;
Princess was snoozing, I napped just a little
Then settled down into my lonely night vigil,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
A man shouting and laughing as mad as a hatter.
Away to the window I pounced in a flash,
Tore open the shutters and climbed up the sash.
The moonlight revealed the wind-driven snow
And things to be chased! And places to go!
When, what should appear above the dark houses,
But a sleigh, pulled along by enormous horned mouses,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I thought to myself, "What makes this guy tick?"
More rapid than house flies his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, like one quite insane;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
And you others, I guess my memory needs fixin'!
To the top of the roof! And don't let me fall!
Or we'll need to make a side trip to the mall!"
Surely as I know how to make a grown man cry,
And by clawing his chair bring a tear to his eye,
So up to the house-top the mouses they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and fresh catnip too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the deck
The scamper of mice; I thought "What the heck?"
As I sharpened my claws, and was turning around,
Down the chimney this strange guy came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his toe,
Politically incorrect as fashions now go;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his shoulder,
I saw them and then I began feeling bolder.
His eyes - how they twinkled! his dimples - how funny
His cheeks were like roses, his nose a bit runny!
His droll little mouth was drawn up in smile,
He was carrying catnip I can smell it a mile;
The stump of a pipe he held tight like a charm,
I hoped that the smoke wouldn't trip the alarm;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
But the smoke from that pipe was a little too smelly.
Just then he saw me, he leaned and drew near,
And put me at ease when he scratched on my ear;
And letting me know I had nothing to dread,
He gave me a couple of pats on the head.
He spoke not a word, but dumped out the toys
And we played for a while, a night full of joys!
Then laying his finger aside of his nose,
Sneezed several times and up the chimney he rose;
And then he explained the awful truth that,
In real life he's quite allergic to cat.
He gathered himself and climbed in his sleigh
And said "For one night it was sure fun to play!"
While I settled down to my own special treat,
Made of toys and of catnip and good things to eat
I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight
"Merry Christmas to all ACHOOOOOO!! And good night!"
Fido's Night before Christmas
Please see iBox before (choose one: I, you, we) get TOS'd.
Matts Secret
SECRET SANTA (Matt)
A toast for you Mattie.
Here's to the girls that say they will, here's to the girls that say they don't, here's to the girls that say they do and then say they won't, but here's to the girls best of all, and you'll know you think I'm right, here's to the girls that say they don't, but tonight they just might.
With love and affection,
your secret Santa and biker buddy
It's a secret dewd
SECRET SANTA (Paulie Cashews)
http://secretsanta.50megs.com
SECRET SANTA (Lownumba)
A friend wrote this. Thought it would take you back.
It snowed yesterday. But it wasn’t like the snow we get most of the time. It consists of little bits of ice. It’s heavy. It has accumulated to over shoe top depth. And it’s a really miserable breed of snow: a shovel won’t move it; salt won’t melt it; a snowball cannot be made from it; it won’t drift; it doesn’t stick to trees and look pretty; and it makes walking a beast. We have a layer cake of waterlogged slush covered with ice bits and topped with a crispy layer of solid ice.
With every step, once I’ve lifted my full weight, the upper layer of ice cracks and my foot falls through the loose crystals, building sufficient momentum to become firmly mired in the wet slush below. So I triple my effort: one for normal walking; two for acting as an ice-breaker; and three for getting unstuck. I questioned my sanity for venturing out. Fortunately, I discovered that if I avoid where others have walked, virgin snow will hold my weight. I chose my route carefully, and was able to arrive at the store without collapsing in exhaustion. I stopped for a coffee: partly because I wanted to sit, and partly to use a coupon I’ve been carrying for a month, but mostly I wanted to put my feet up. I hurried through my shopping and enjoyed an easy walk home, thanks to my earlier discovery.
Later, I suggested that my husband join me for a walk. I looked forward to being able to walk on top of the ice while he’s breaking through. He declined. I settled in at home and gave the weather no additional thought.
Early this morning, I was awakened by the noise of snow ploughing. Because the snowfall was so unusual, it’s removal caused extraordinary sound. It was the metal blades smashing against ice that created the additional clatter. It took me a moment to realise what was making the noise. The racket was a familiar sound from my childhood.
In the 1950’s, we lived across the road from a dairy where every morning, trucks would deliver milk. It was shipped in metal cans. Today, we see these cans for sale in country antique shops. They’re often painted with scenes of rural life. Farmers now ship bulk milk to the dairy in refrigerated trucks. Progress.
The trucks would stop at the unloading station. Each can would be placed on a platform of rollers, creating noise number one. The cans would travel through a small door where another man would remove the lid with a rubber hammer, making noise number two. Yet another man would tip the can and it would empty into a tub, producing noise number three. The cans and lids would require washing. Again, a man did this work by hand, using a brush and hose. This didn’t make much noise, but when he set the empty can upside down on a metal rack, he compensated for the relative silence of the washing: noise number four. Near the end, the empty cans were put on another roller rack, the lids replaced, and they’d be sent outside again through a second small door. Now outside, they’d roll along this rack, clanking and banging, until they reached the end. With one final loud crash, they’d come to a stop. They’d make no more sound until they were reloaded onto the truck for the return trip to the farm. Loading the truck wasn’t silent.
By noon, the milk delivery would be completed. By evening, the inside work would be finished and the dairy would close for the day.
The rack with rollers became a source of amusement for neighbourhood kids. It ran for a little over a hundred feet with enough decline that we could manage some exciting speeds on it. We’d make a car from a cardboard box and with a good shove, we’d enjoy the ride of a lifetime. At least until near the rack’s end. At the end, there was a steel barricade to stop the milk cans. It sure stopped us too. Hitting it hurt. As we neared the end of the rack, we’d jump. It required great timing: too early would short-change our ride; too late and we’d crash. Typically, we’d ride the rollers until one of two events ended our fun: the cardboard box would disintegrate; or someone would get hurt.
When the snow ploughs awakened me this morning, I was transported back decades. I was living in the old family house. My parents were downstairs making breakfast. (I didn’t finish my homework!) I wanted to ride the rollers one more time. I had forgotten my age. I remembered fun. It’s like there’s a kid inside my body who wants to get out.
At breakfast, I asked my husband if he enjoys riding on roller-coasters. He does. I suggested we visit an amusement park sometime this summer. He agreed. I can’t wait!
SECRET SANTA (occams razor)
May one of these be under your Christmas tree
that says WORLD CHAMPIONS!
SECRET SANTA (Cassandra)
Happy, happy Christmas,
that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days,
recall to the old man the pleasures of the youth, and transport
the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home!
- Charles Dickens -
SECRET SANTA (SoxFan)
The Gift of the Magi
by O. Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops. Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?" Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone. But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled. "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
SECRET SANTA (PEGnNJ)
I didn’t know what to do
So I looked at some sayings for you
You are thoughtful and nice
And of that I am sure
So I picked some quotes to read that endure
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year
Nice Thoughts
Blessed are the meek, for they make great scapegoats.
It's okay to call someone stupid. Just don't prove it.
We were born naked, wet and hungry. Then things get worse.
Never settle with words what you can accomplish with a flame thrower.
Few women admit their age. Few men act theirs.
Always remember you're unique, just like everyone else.
Beautify Texas. Put a Yankee on a bus.
Laws of the Universe
"Never attribute to malice anything that can be adequately explained by stupidity." -- Hanlon's Razor
"No matter how great your triumphs or how tragic your defeats, approximately one billion Chinese couldn't care less." -- Lazlo's Chinese Relativity Axiom
"Sattinger's Law: It works better if you plug it in."
"Assumption is the mother of all screw-ups." -- Wethern's Law
On Politics and the World
"As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular." -- Oscar Wilde
“To an old leader will be born an idiot heir, weak both in knowledge and in war."—Nostradamus
On Men and Women
"If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant's life, she will choose to save the infant's life without even considering if there are men on base." -- Dave Barry
"Getting rid of a man without hurting his masculinity is a problem. "Get out" and "I never want to see you again" might sound like a challenge. If you want to get rid of a man, I suggest saying, "I love you...I want to marry you...I want to have your children." Sometimes they leave skid marks." -- Rita Rudner
"Falling in love is like catching knives. In time, you can learn to do it without hurting yourself every time. It's still a dangerous proposition, though." – russ
"Women take clothing much more seriously than men. I've never seen a man walk into a party and say "Oh, my God, I'm so embarrassed; get me out of here. There's another man wearing a black tuxedo." -- Rita Rudner
"Men believe they already have all the clothes they will ever need, and new ones make them nervous. For example, your average man has 84 ties, but he wears, at most, only three of them. He has learned, through humiliating trial and error, that if he wears any of the other 81 ties, his wife will probably laugh at him ("You're not going to wear THAT tie with that suit, are you?"). So he has narrowed it down to three safe ties, and has gone several years without being laughed at. If you give him a new tie, he will pretend to like it, but deep inside he will hate you." -- Dave Barry
On Life
"[The aardvark's tongue] is as long as your arm, but sticky, flexible, and covered in panic-stricken termites...."
"Ninety percent of the time, things turn out better than you thought they would. The other ten percent of the time, you had no right to expect that much." -- Augustine
"If all else fails, immortality can always be assured by spectacular error." -- John Kenneth Galbraith
"You can't start worrying about what's going to happen. You get spastic enough worrying about what's happening now." -- Lauren Bacall
"Trust everyone - but cut the cards." -- W.C. Fields
"Millions long for immortality who do not know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon." - H. L. Mencken
"Don't take life too seriously. You'll never get out alive." -- Bugs Bunny
SECRET SANTA (skeballlarry)
From your Secret Santa!
SECRET SANTA (Susie)
Susie, unlike so many of the bright and witty people here, I have little gift for words. I have no poem, no haiku to offer. May my gift to you be this simple but heartfelt toast:
(Ladies and Gentlemen, raise your glasses please.)
Susie, I am certain of very little, but this I know to be true. The world would be a far kinder and better place were it filled with people just one half as sweet, as gentle and as special as you are. Merry, merry Christmas, Susie.
SECRET SANTA (Janice Shell)
WORDS OF WISDOM FROM ALL AGES
I'VE LEARNED........
I've learned that you can't hide a piece of broccoli in a glass
of milk. Age 6
I've learned that I like my teacher because she cries when we
sing "Silent Night". Age 7
I've learned that when I wave to people in the country, they stop what they are doing and wave back. Age 9
I've learned that just when I get my room the way I like it, Mom
makes me clean it up. Age 12
I've learned that if you want to cheer yourself up, you should
try cheering someone else up. Age 13
I've learned that although it's hard to admit it, I'm secretly
glad my parents are strict with me. Age 15
I've learned that silent company is often more healing than words of advice. Age 24
I've learned that brushing my child's hair is one of life's great pleasures. Age 25
I've learned that wherever I go, the worlds worst drivers have
followed me there. Age 29
I've learned that if someone says something unkind about me, I
must live so that no one will believe it. Age 39
I've learned that there are people who love you dearly but just
don't know how to show it. Age 41
I've learned that you can make someone's day by simply sending
them a little card. Age 44
I've learned that the greater a person's sense of guilt, the
greater his need to cast blame on others. Age 45
I've learned that children and grandparents are natural allies.
Age 46
I've learned that singing "Amazing Grace" can lift my spirits for hours. Age 49
I've learned that motel mattresses are better on the side away
from the phone. Age 50
I've learned that you can tell a lot about a man by the way he
handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage and tangled Christmas tree lights. Age 52
I've learned that regardless of your relationship with your
parents, you miss them terribly after they die. Age 53
I've learned that making a living is not the same thing as making a life. Age 58
I've learned that if you want to do something positive for your
children, try to improve your marriage. Age 61
I've learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance.
Age 62
I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catchers
mitt on both hands. You need to be able to throw something back. Age 64
I've learned that if you pursue happiness, it will elude you.
But if you focus on your family, the needs of others, your work, meeting new people, and doing the very best you can, happiness will find you. Age 65
I've learned that whenever I decide something with kindness, I
usually make the right decision. Age 66
I've learned that everyone can use a prayer. Age 72
I've learned that it pays to believe in miracles. And to tell
the truth, I've seen several. Age 73
I've learned that even when I have pains, I don't have to be one. Age 82
I've learned that every day you should reach out and touch
someone. People love that human touch, holding hands, a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. Age 85
I've learned that I still have a lot to learn. Age 92
Happy Holidays
Your Secret Santa
SECRET SANTA (Matt)
Roses are red
Violets are blue
You guys are my buds
Aren't you?
Your Secret Santa
(Sorry, but my drawing sucks)
SECRET SANTA (Archangel)
http://www.archangelcastle.com/
and
May take a few seconds to load…
http://load.pquinn.com/binaries/fries/
SECRET SANTA (Cyotekk)
Since I couldn't find you a temporary Don Juan, I thought the next best thing was a cooking recipe!
This recipe is for the best cookies! Enjoy.
This might be kind of fun to make....
Here is how to make a favorite Christmas Cookie:
Christmas Cookie Ingredients:
1 cup of water
1 tsp baking soda
1 cup of sugar
1 tsp salt
1 cup of brown sugar
lemon juice
4 large eggs
1 cup nuts
2 cups of dried fruit
1 bottle Jose Cuervo Tequila
Directions:
Sample the Cuervo to check quality.
Take a large bowl, check the Cuervo
again, to be sure it is of the highest
quality, pour one level cup and drink.
Turn on the electric mixer...Beat one
cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.
Add one teaspoon of sugar...Beat again.
At this point it's best to make sure the
Cuervo is still OK, try another cup ...
just in case.
Turn off the mixerer thingy. Break 2
leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in
the cup of dried fruit, Pick the
frigging fruit off floor... Mix on the
turner. If the fried druit gets stuck
in the beaterers just pry it loose with
a drewscriver. Sample the Cuervo to
check for tonsisticity.
Next, sift two cups of salt, or
something. Who giveshz a sheet. Check
the Jose Cuervo. Now shift the lemon
juice and strain your nuts. Add one
table. Add a spoon of sugar, or
somefink. Whatever you can find. Greash
the oven.
Turn the cake tin 360 degrees
and try not to fall over. Don't forget
to beat off the turner. Finally, throw
the bowl through the window, finish the
Cose Juervo and make sure to put the stove in the
dishwasher.
CHERRY MISTMAS
Not my job
SECRET SANTA (Lownumba)
Lownumba Haiku
Each day two oh two
Gives me many laughs and smiles
But none more than you.
And my favorite poem by Wallace Stephens
Sunday Morning
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound.
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measure destined for her soul.
Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?"
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.
She says, "But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss."
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feel shall manifest.
She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay."
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
Merry Christmas
SECRET SANTA (fung_derf)
Roses are red
Cows moo
You wish you could have
A taste of Brooke Burke's boob
That aint happenin'
Surely not this week
Go shave your back
You hairy little freak
SECRET SANTA (Churak)
Churak
A day in the life.
You will be woken up by your new alarm clock.
http://www.mj-traders.com/Target.htm
Breakfast
http://www.angelfire.com/retro/groovefunkmeister/
http://www.backwoodsbound.com/zsquir9.html
Decoration for Your Car
http://www.allesoverballen.com/engels/KANGOEZAK.html
http://www.australiagift.com/scrotum_shop/car_scrotum.htm
Lunch
http://store.yahoo.com/giftologyonline/ccrte.html
A little exercise.
http://www.eecs.harvard.edu/~yaz/en/squirrel_fishing.html
http://www.squirrels.org/
Something for your nap
http://www.reprodepotfabrics.com/counlivbigna.html
http://www.thegreatestgift.com/Merchant2/merchant.mv?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=L&Product_Code=1....
Computer time
http://www.elited.net/reviews/jun02/hooters.shtml
Dinner
http://www.originalhooters.com/
Sex Toy
http://www.drugs.com/index.cfm?pageID=0&brand=Black%20Draught
Your Dream Hooter.
http://www.basspro-shops.com/servlet/catalog.TextId?hvarTextId=21480&hvarTarget=search&cmCat....
Transportation provided by
http://www.hootersair.com/about/advantages/
SECRET SANTA (WTMHouston)
Troy decides to take his boss Phil to play 9 holes on their lunch. While both men are playing excellent they are often held up by two women in front of them moving at a very slow pace. Troy offers to talk to the women and see if they can speed it up a bit. He gets about half of the way there stops and jogs back.
His boss asks what the problem is. "Well one of those women is my wife and the other my mistress," complained Troy. Phil just shook his head at Troy and started toward the women determined to finish his round of golf. Preparing to ask the ladies to speed up their game, he too stopped short and turned around.
Troy asked "what's wrong?" It's a small, small world Troy, and you're fired"
SECRET SANTA (occams razor)
December is full of hustle and bustle
People running from store to store
Trying to find just the perfect gift
Not realizing that less can be more
We are a group of ordinary people
Who have met in an extraordinary way
But yet I feel like I know you
Because we “speak” almost every day.
What gift can I get for someone I can’t see
That is something not easily done
How about a donation to a charity
The question is which one
You seem to have many interests
Baseball and pets to name two
Ballplayers don’t need money
But abandoned animals do
Merry Christmas to you Raz
A very Happy New Year too
May a dog or cat be more comfortable
Because a donation was made for you
A donation has been made to the Animal Rescue League of Boston anonymously.
From your Secret Santa
***************************************************************************************
SECRET SANTA (Janice Shell)
Janice, I tried shopping for the 12 Days of Christmas for you but inflation got the best of me.
I guess this will have to do instead.....
The alias has been permanently suspended.
http://www.ragingbull.lycos.com/mboard/memalias.cgi?member=lindabruzzone
Your Secret Santa
SECRET SANTA (Patricia_1)
The Politically Correct Version Of Twas The Night Before Christmas:
'Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck
How to live in a world that's politically correct?
His workers no longer would answer to "Elves."
"Vertically Challenged" they were calling themselves.
And labor conditions at the North Pole
Were alleged by the union to stifle the soul.
Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety,
Released to the wilds by the Humane Society.
And equal employment had made it quite clear
That Santa had better not use just reindeer.
So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid,
Were replaced with four pigs, and you know that looked stupid!
The runners had been removed from his sleigh;
The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.A.
And people had started to call for the cops
When they heard roof noises up on their roof-tops.
Smoke from his pipe had his workers quite frightened.
His fur-trimmed red suit was called "Unenlightened."
And to show you the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows, Rudolf would sue o'er the use of his nose
And had gone on Geraldo, in front of the nation,
Asking millions of dollars in due compensation.
So, half of the reindeer were gone; and his wife,
Who suddenly said she'd had enough of this life,
Joined a self-helping group, and left in a whiz,
Demanding from now on her title was Ms.
And as for the gifts, he'd ne'er had a notion
That making a choice could cause such commotion.
Nothing of leather, nothing of fur,
Which meant nothing for him. And nothing for her.
Nothing that might be construed to pollute.
Nothing to aim and nothing to shoot.
Nothing that clamored or made lots of noise.
Nothing for just girls, or just for the boys.
Nothing that claimed to be gender specific.
Nothing that's warlike and so, non-pacific.
or sweets...they were bad for the tooth.
Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.
And fairy tales too, while not yet forbidden,
Were like Ken and Barbie...(just better off hidden.)
For they raised the hackles of those psychological
Who said the only good gift was one ecological.
No baseball, not football...someone could get hurt;
Besides, playing sports exposed kids to the dirt.
Dolls were too sexist, and should be passe;
And Nintendo, 'twas found, rots your brain cells away.
So Santa just stood there, disheveled, perplexed;
He just couldn't figure out what to do next.
He tried to be merry, tried to be gay,
(But you've got to be careful with that word today.)
His sack was quite empty, lay limp on the ground;
No suitable gift for this year could be found.
Something special was needed, a gift that he might
Give to all without angering the left or the right.
A gift that would satisfy, with no indecision,
Each group of people and every religion;
Every ethnicity, each color and hue,
Everyone, everywhere...even to you.
So here is that gift, it's price beyond worth...
May you and your loved ones enjoy peace on earth.
SECRET SANTA (SoxFan)
A Bell
Had I the power
To cast a bell that should from some grand tower,
At the first Christmas hour,
Outring,
And fling
A jubilant message wide,
The forged metals should be thus allied
No iron Pride,
But soft Humility, and rich-veined Hope
Cleft from a sunny slope;
And there should be
White Charity,
And silvery Love, that knows not Doubt nor Fear,
To make the peal more clear;
And then to firmly fix the fine alloy,
There should be Joy!
Merry Christmas...
Fondly,
Your Secret Santa
SECRET SANTA (Matt)
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I have a web site
Just for you