My Best Pal in the Whole World is Phil Lanier. For 60-plus years, we use Woke Math and identify as 8-year-olds. Christmas can’t officially commence without our phone call. We just concluded a playful argument about who had the most boring Christmas Day.
Lanier confessed he had to feed his cat, which required opening a new can. I give points to Phil. 1) He’s allergic to cats; 2) He doesn’t like cats; and, C) Having had a cat (Spike), I can attest how the fresh aroma of opening a can of wet cat food is like being sprayed in the face with dragon vomit, sewage back-up and a Kamala Harris speech. I’m not really a cat person, although Spike tolerated me for something like 12 years. The gray boo-boo tabby was a former wedding present thrown from a speeding car through my open kitchen window with the maniacal laughter of an ex-wife receding in the distance. Spike and I regarded each other for a moment. Then, he bit me.
Now. Some of you Sherlock Holmes fans will pick up the logic flaw that if Phil goes into cardiac arrest whenever the cartoon Felix the Cat goes “RIGHT-TEE-OOO!!!” on TV, why does Phil own a cat? One word. And it’s the be-all, end-all cause of all major world problems — Marriage. Phil’s wife? She likes, no, “WUBS!” cats. But, makes Phil feed hers.
Phil, his kids and missus, are in Chicago. I’m in Newhall. We both agreed that I probably won the competition of who had The Most Boring holiday because while be both vacuumed on Christmas Day, I spent 10 days in a chair, facing a wall in the dark and softly whimpering. Not all-out weeping, mind you. Just — whimpering. Which is pathetic. Your joints stiffen up and when you finally traipse out to empty the trash (empty Costco wine boxes and beef jerky wrappers), your eyes are unaccustomed to the sunlight. Arms extended, you pirouette madly, screaming, “Damn you, giant spiders!! Come at me one at a time or all at once, I’ll kill you all!!” Then, as sight slowly returns, you spot a sheriff’s prowl car parked, with a deputy and his giant arm filling the open window, staring at you.
“Oh! Hi, Deputy!” I call out, teeth atop one another in a forced albeit innocent smile and voice eight octaves too high. “It’s OK! I’m single and just celebrating Christmas alone. I was just watching ‘Reacher’ on Amazon and moved to tears by episode No. 5 where the warehouse blows up at the end.”
The local Santa Clarita gendarme puffs his big cigar, takes a swig of sweet tea from a big Mason jar and calls back, “Dat Reacher is one dam fine telly-vision program. Don’t you be goin’ tellin’ me and Deputy Bodine here the endin’, for we and our families are goin’ watch it tonight after Christmas dinner. Which is ham hocks and possum gravy. Quit yellin’ and carryin’ on or we’ll come back and beat your bare feet with rubber hoses. Decent people are celebratin’ the Lord’s Birthday, ya hear now? Y’all have some respect — yuhhearmeboy …?”
Sadly, the last legislation outgoing Santa Clarita Mayor Jason Gibbs rubberstamped in 2023 was to downsize our local police department. To cut costs, Gibbs hired two cops from the 1950s Deep South. Surprisingly? Crime has plummeted.
Phil and I chatted, and, poor guy, he lost more Who Had The Most Boring Christmas competition points. We both had office parties. But, Phil works for some shady Chicago liberal multi-billion-dollar George Soros nonprofit and, from his Secret Santa, got some low-income rentals in the South Side and a small percentage of the drug and stolen tennis shoes trade. Times are tough there in the Windy City. A few Christmases ago, his non-profit flew everyone to Epstein Island. In Democratic fashion, they ate sushi off the tummies of swimsuit models, then ended the evening with the traditional fireworks of a laughing red and orange Satan and human sacrifices.
Me? I have two companies, Scared o’ Bears Ranch and John Boston Books. I’m the only employee, so, our various office parties — Christmas, Birthdays, Heterosexual Pride Month — are somewhat minimalist. Stood for hours, waiting, alone, under the mistletoe as Bing Crosby crooned in the background. This may seem pathetic, but, I did win the office karaoke competition and got a nice, hastily constructed Christmas scarf made from paper towels. Barring rain or snow, keeps your neck warm. And, with just me as CEO AND staff, I don’t have to suffer listening to all the bluster and promise about how 2024 is going to be, somehow, different.
Microphone in hand, I stood on a stool and started to say how proud I was of everyone and that the upcoming year was going to bring abundance, cheer, hope, record profits and the races slow-dancing together. Then, throwing my voice, I yelled, “SHUT UP!!”
Then, I yelled back in my CEO voice, “WHO SAID THAT!!??”
Then, there was a fistfight. Unkind words were exchanged. The mood of the party grew somber. That’s when I took out the trash. It was 2 in the afternoon.
Phil, dogless, confessed he had to borrow a neighbor’s canine to take on a Christmas morning constitutional in Chicago. It was in a blizzard, minus-428 degrees. Rock-throwing teenaged youths attempted to dogjack him, but he recognized the youths from Chicago’s Inner-City Government Cheese Give-Away where Phil makes $655,000 yearly delivering Muenster wheels, Nikes and lotto tickets to the poor. Gunfire erupted. Phil took a shoulder scratch but hit three of the misguided youths.
I’m not saying he fed them to the dog. That would be a little Mad Max, only in arctic conditions. The gunfire exchange? That alone puts Phil out of the running for a boring Christmas Day …
Earth’s most prolific satirist John Boston, despite all our best efforts, still lives in Santa Clarita. He just released his latest political humor, “The Unauthorized Autobiography of Joe Biden.” Unless you’re Hillary Clinton, it’s beyond funny. Visit johnbostonbooks.com and buy several hundred copies and sprinkle 5 stars with abandon…