I wasn’t…
I wasn’t going to do a Christmas card this year.
You, who have received them over the decades, might sigh and sing thank the dear lords of the Madagascar Fruit Farmers!!
But…
But being this season of life and living alone, with the exception of the rest of the flight crew, I’m able to pivot pretty quick—forward or backward. I’m like a dancing Ethiopian minx.
I get it. They are not really what your grandmother wants to see on your refrigerator when she comes over with her famously bad fruit cake. ‘Oh dear, that scary man is posting unholiness again. I thought he was dead,’ she whispers.
…skunk weed.
Well, I’m not. But still, I wasn’t going to do one. Then the MWCCFC Ltd., the Mark Williams Christmas Card Fan Club, a group of people I know none of made up of farmers, former prison inmates, one-legged pirates, and men and women who believe scotch is a medicinal concoction, wrote and said I couldn’t stop. Not this year! Not after all that election stuff and other voodoo from ‘influencers’ living in their aunt’s basement sharing a litterbox with some orange cat named Rascal, and writing stuff trying to be relevant to anyone who will listen while they smoke the skunk weed.
So, I made one.
I thought I would try to find some of the ones from years ago. gathered only a few after decades of doing them. I guess I gave them all away. Which was a few since I started with Sir Mark and Ben Chow when I was sixteen. Over the years, they were random and concerning. Often, back in ‘those days’ we didn’t have computers so, I wrote letters on the existing family status. Kids, jobs, things like that. Now, well, you get this crap.
Because I didn’t want to spend too much on stamps, most of you will get this version. Print it out on your printer and trim it, then tape it to the fridge just like the old days. Put me right next to your grandmother’s picture who is concerned about the scary man.
The last few years have been a little sporty as we used to call a dumpster fire of an event. Now, well, now we call them dumpster fires or shit storms. Same thing. We are either crawling out of one or into one. It doesn’t make any difference. We are on this flight deck steaming towards open sea together and the mooring lines have been casted off.
Fear is what Satan loves. Upset stomachs, worry, restless sleep, fatigue, doubt, he loves that crap and pours it out on us.
But there is a Plan.
…malt liquor….
It’s perfect. We just got to trust it. It’s hard. Sometimes, we will fail at it. Sometimes, we are glorious-but its not us! It will be hard even when we do trust it. So, knowing that, it’s time to cinch up our dungarees, tie down our thingy’s, gird our nether regions, and make sure that malt liquor and Baileys is on the counter next to the coffee pot. Knowing there’s a Plan, we got some swagger now like Bon Jovi on a balance beam. We got an attitude, and we have got a plan. We have The Plan. Satan hates it-that heathen bastard.
So, this might be the last one. But last year was supposed to be the last one so—who knows. All I know is, we are about to fly into 2025. Dare to believe!
And….
And maybe, late at night, you will feel voices in your skull. A soft and soothing voice you almost feel peace by hearing. It seems between two people-
Mr. Haskins.
Sah.
Turn her into the wind. Notify air crews to man their planes.
SAH!
Merry Frickin’ Chistmas and Happy birthday Lord!
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