Christmas Questions To Ponder???
- What do you call people who are afraid of Santa Claus?
- What do you do if Santa gets stuck in your chimney?
A. Pour Santa flush on him.
- How much did Santa pay for his sleigh?
A. Nothing, it was on the house!
- What does humpty dumpty have to do with Christmas?
A. Egg Noggin
- What Language does Santa Speak?
A. North Polish
- What does Santa clean his sleigh with?
- What do you call a girl singing ‘Jingle Bells’ at your front door
- What comes before Christmas Eve?
A. Christmas Adam!
- What did Mrs. Claus say to Santa when she heard such a clatter?
A. “Looks like rain, dear.”
How Many Reindeer does Santa Have?
- Comet Cupid
- Olive…. The Other reindeer
Q: What’s brown and sticky?
A: A twig.
Q: What’s the best part about living in Switzerland?
A: Not sure, but the flag is a big plus.
Q: Why didn’t the lifeguard save the hippie?
A: Because he was too far out, man!
A duck, a deer, and a skunk were having a drink in a cafe, when the owner asked for the money.
“I’m not paying,” said the duck. “I’ve only got one bill and I’m not breaking it.”
“I’ve spent my last buck,” said the deer.
“Then the duck’ll have to pay,” said the skunk. “Getting here cost me my last scent.”
This guy goes into his dentist’s office, because something is wrong with his mouth. After a brief examination, the dentist exclaims, “Holy Smoke! That plate I installed in your mouth about six months ago has nearly completely corroded! What on earth have you been eating?” “Well… the only thing I can think of is this… my wife made me some asparagus about four months ago with this stuff on it… Hollandaise sauce she called it… and doctor, I’m talkin’ DELICIOUS! I’ve never tasted anything like it, and ever since then I’ve been putting it on everything… meat, fish, toast, vegetables… you name it!” “That’s probabably it,” replied the dentist “Hollandaise sauce is made with lemon juice, which is acidic and highly corrosive. It seems as thought I’ll have to install a new plate, but made out of chrome this time.” “Why chrome?” the man asked. “Well, everyone knows that there’s no plate like chrome for the Hollandaise!”
Encourage people to believe in you.
Make your presents known.
If you only show up once a year, everyone will think you’re very important.
|KIDS SAY THE FUNNIEST THINGS
“Close the curtains,” requested a tot, sitting in a pool of bright light. “The sun’s looking at me too hard.”
Someone asked a youngster when he would turn 6. He replied, “When I’m tired of being 5.”
While shampooing her son, 4, the mom noted his hair was growing so fast he’d soon need it cut. He replied, “Maybe we shouldn’t water it so much.”
When complimented on her vocabulary, the 5-year-old nonchalantly responded, “I have words in my head I haven’t even used yet.”
His mom informed Brian that she was going outside to get a little sun. “But Mommy,” he gulped, “You already have a little son — me!”
When a boy reported two look-alike classmates at school, his parents said they were probably twins. The next day, he came home all bubbly and said, “Guess what? They’re not only twins, they’re brothers!”
Politically Correct Santa
(Adapted by Robby Dilmore from the poem of Harvey Ehrlich, ©1992)
‘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 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!
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.
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 war-like 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, with nothing to deliver
The absence of gifts made even poor Santa shiver.
So now was the time that true gifts could shine through A Savior was needed So Our Father came Through.
John 3:16 was God’s plan for the worlds celebration. So He sent His son to free every nation.
And I heard Him exclaim as He rose out of Sight, “I’m sending My Spirit to guide you in what’s Right”
Christmas Fruit Cake
I never cared for the taste of fruitcake, but I’ve been saving one for years.
It’s the last of those I used to get every Christmas from Elizabeth, my friend Paul’s mom. She always cooked up what seemed like hundreds for family and friends, wrapping them in plastic, and tying them with red and green ribbons.
Fruitcakes are known to take on lives of their own, passing from one person to the next, sometimes lingering long enough to carbon-date. Cut one open, if you dare, and divine its age like you’d count the rings of some ancient tree.
Though we pretended to like them, Elizabeth never pressed us for reports on their flavor, probably sensing that many simply became souvenirs—if not albatrosses—not that it seemed to matter. Still, everybody got one, delivered with a proud smile and wrapped in love, a present from this woman who used her recipes to nourish our souls as much as our bodies.
The tradition was passed down by Elizabeth’s mom, who had learned it from her own aunt. With nobody sure how many generations back it goes, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn an early version of the recipe, scripted on papyrus and stored in an urn, has been unearthed during some distant archaeological dig.
Paul’s father lost his hearing some years back, and got to where he couldn’t see very well. Then Elizabeth’s diabetes eventually put her in a wheelchair and robbed her of sight, so Paul moved back home that fall to help care for them.
As Christmas approached, Elizabeth kept mentioning how much she wished she could hand out those fruitcakes again. Saddened by having to break the tradition, she reminisced about helping Grandma when she was a little girl. Tears welled in her eyes as she talked about her fruitcakes, admitting that eating them isn’t what matters, that it’s cooking up some love and sharing it with people who mean the most to her.
During her nap that afternoon, Paul searched through two boxes stuffed with hundreds of recipes filed in no particular order. He finally found it, flour-crusted, yellow with age, and difficult to read. He went out and bought the ingredients, then set about mixing, determined to make her a batch to give away. Paul’s not known for his culinary finesse, and most family recipes require a dollop of magic beyond what’s actually written down, so he finally had to wake her, confessing his plan and asking her to help.
They spent the rest of the afternoon making fruitcakes. She took charge, while Paul served as her eyes and hands. They didn’t need that old recipe card; Elizabeth knew this one by heart.
She glowed with pride as she handed them out, accepting kisses and thanks, hugging back with newfound strength despite her frail condition. She’d probably felt that way every year, but this marked the first time we really noticed.
Several days after Christmas, Elizabeth required hospitalization, but there was little that could be done, and she took a turn for the worse. In a stark, antiseptic room far from the familiar aromas of her kitchen, Paul lost his mother, and we all lost a friend.
Gathered at the house after the funeral, Paul and his siblings carefully copied her fruitcake recipe, all vowing to carry on the custom. Several of them did, too—for a couple of years. Busy with their own lives and still discovering their own unique ways to celebrate, they gradually let the fruitcake tradition slip away.
Some things will never leave us, though. Elizabeth’s children, like all of us she touched, will always carry on with a more important tradition: living the way she taught. Devotion to our families, integrity, loyalty, and love for each other . . . these are what I see being passed on to the next generation. These are truly Elizabeth’s recipe for life.
I still have that fruitcake somewhere, the one she and my friend made together. When I look at it, I can see her face lighting up as she presented it to me.
It is, after all, just a fruitcake. I still don’t care for the taste. And I can’t say how long I’ll manage to hang on to this odd thing, a souvenir wrapped in plastic and tied with red and green ribbons . . .
A family recipe, the reminder of those last precious moments my friend spent with his mom, a Christmas gift from the heart.