I have very few heroes.
Savonarola, the Mad Monk who ruled Florence in the late 15th century, is one. A cove after my own flinty heart. What he didn't know about making people's lives miserable could be written on the head of a match. A match used to light a bonfire under such fripperies as fun. And pleasure.
That he himself finished up having a bonfire lit under him himself is an irony that has always escaped me.
Scrooge is my other hero. At least until C. Dickens copped out and turned him into a namby-pamby, do-good wally. Damn wimpy writers catering to their audiences!
You'll never catch this boofheaded scribe catering to anyone bar himself.
Please! Take it away!
This is what the two-legged dogs made of Christmas:
Savonarola would've had a 15th century bonfire under that little lot quicksmart.
Scrooge would've been apoplectic. Until he turned into a milk-sop.
And noi? Which is to say, in inglese, us? Barbra and me? What did we find for ourselves under the tree amidst the SatNav devices, boxed-set Pirates of the Caribbean DVDs, books, et al?
Two each of the above.
Not two packets. Two Schmackos. Each. Gift-wrapped.
Same as last year.
And the year before.
The same - not to put too fine a point on it - as every dang year since I joined this circus they call a family.
Now I'm a boofhead with principles. Never let it be said that I'd compromise my passionate beliefs for a mere piece of frippery.
But I'm here to tell you - I'd call Savonarola for the 15th century fruit loop that he was, and Scrooge for the shining example of the possibilities of human redemption that he was -
- for a boxed-set of Lassie DVDs!
Barbra, of course, would roll over for a second-hand VHS copy of Yentl.