The 20th Annual ABM Christmas Letter

Ho, ho, ho! It’s that time again… Time to get trampled at Wal-Mart while begrudgingly buying crappy gifts for people you don’t even like, but happen to be married to, related to, or work with. It’s also time for me to point out how hopelessly dull your life is compared to mine by writing about all the excitement I’ve had this year. It’s been an eventful one, what with my bid to start my own cult, my unsuccessful presidential campaign, my stalking of Angelina Jolie, and my near-purchase of Barack Obama’s Senate seat.

Back in February I wanted to start my own cult, but quickly realized that Mormon fundamentalists were already crowding the field and scooping up the hot young chicks. Plus my own fundamentalist Baptist family presented a persuasive argument against my ambition by threatening me with exorcism and being burned at the stake. My brother-in-law Don is a Baptist minister and a certified Witch Burnologist, despite being blind. I decided not to take any chances that he might be able to feel his way to the lighter fluid and matches.

Next I set my sights on the presidency. As you know, I did not win, but I gave it my best shot. I made several campaign stops in small towns across the country, where I met and connected with ordinary people who were much like myself, only dumber and with tobacco juice dribbling down their chins. I’d have to say that the highlight of my whole year was a campaign stop I made in El Paso, where I met a Latina immigrant named ChiChi, who threw her stiletto heels at my head in the traditional Argentinian and Iraqi manner of indicating sexual interest. I really connected with ChiChi, this woman of low moral values and great athletic ability. John McCain and Sarah Palin may have had Joe the Plumber, but I had ChiChi the Hooker. I think I got the better deal.

Also, I almost scored with Angelina Jolie—if by “scored” one means that I got within 15 feet of her before Brad Pitt almost crushed my skull with his ab muscles when he caught me trying to take naked pictures of his luscious-lipped companion. I followed Brangelina to Africa on their way to adopt their 47th child. Angelina was bathing in the Cuando River, and I disguised myself as a floating log and went drifting by with my underwater camera at the ready. As I raised my head to photograph the angelic Angelina, I drifted into Brad’s rock-hard abs. You can just imagine what happened next!

More recently, I came within a hair’s breadth of acquiring Barack Obama’s vacant senate seat from Gov. Rod Blagojevich and that furry animal that lives on his head. The Governor and his Giant Hairball drove a hard bargain—he wanted a year’s worth of “massages” from ChiChi the Hooker, an Astin Martin like the one featured in the new James Bond film, and a $500,000 cash donation. I talked him down to a two-hour session with ChiChi, a 20-year-old broken-down Austin Healy and two cases of Aqua Net hairspray. We were about to seal the deal when that do-gooder Patrick Fitzgerald had to go and bust him. C’est la vie, I suppose.

But really, life is about the little things, and we must count every little blessing.

Speaking of little things, last week I accidentally backed over a feral kitten with my car. It was nighttime, and the poor little thing was apparently hiding behind one of my wheels. It was an unpleasant surprise for both of us, but more so for the kitten. I backed out of the driveway, felt a little bump, and looked back to see the tiny furball dragging itself across the driveway to its mother, using only its forepaws. Its mother quickly carried it away in her mouth. Not to worry—it didn’t die. It now has a bit of a limp, but otherwise it’s fine.

You’re probably wondering why I’m relating this awful story to you in my Christmas letter. There are two reasons. First, it made me thankful that I’m not a feral kitten and that I know not to hide behind car wheels. For another, I think it encapsulates the struggles of life—how we often lose our innocence (and sometimes the use of our hind legs) to strangers driving foreign cars, and yet we learn to claw our way back to overcome adversity. I think, in a way, I did that kitten a favor.

As for my own cats—Tig, Sweetpea and Smokey—they’re doing fine. Tig is learning sign language at the Austin Feline Magnet School, Smokey is about to earn his third degree black belt in Tiger-Cat Kung Fu, and Sweetpea was this year’s Homecoming Queen at Purina Cat Chow High. I’m just as proud of them as you are of your bratty human kids. I’m sure they’d send you their best if they didn’t have tiny brains that make them amoral and antisocial—much like me.

So, from all of us in the Angry Bald Man household, happy holidays, and may your Yuletide be gay…whatever that means.

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