1. What you wear is important. I drove up to New Hampshire with fellow author Kristi Petersen Schoonover, who advised me during the drive that I shouldn’t wear green, orange, patterns, or too much makeup. I shouldn’t wear jewelry that was too sparkly, and now was NOT the time to try a new fashion trend. There were sound reasons for this: green would blend in with the green screen, making me look like a floating head with no torso; orange is apparently a bad color on me; patterns make people look fat on TV; makeup melts. Sparkly jewelry is distracting and can cause weird flashy things to happen, and a new fashion trend that I’d never tried would make me uncomfortable.

I wore black.

Remember a few years ago when everyone had to get a digital TV converter box if they still wanted to get over-the-air local television, like CBS or ABC? There was a big panic and kerfuffle as people fought over boxes like 1983 Cabbage Patch dolls. Riots occurred in the streets; mothers wept; children were sold into slavery in exchange for a Roku box . . .

No? That’s not what happened? I wouldn’t actually know, because my house is located in a black hole that no digital television signals can penetrate. I have been unable to watch local television or even the news as it airs since I moved off of Block Island over ten years ago. And I’ll admit it: it’s kind of nice.

We’re not total Neanderthals. We had satellite TV until the trees around the house grew so tall that we could no longer get signals. We scrapped the dish, signed up for Netflix streaming, and called it a day.

Our lives changed for the better. Netflix, you see, allows for on-demand viewing, so you can binge-watch, say, all eleven seasons of M*A*S*H in one weekend. I can stream Netflix on the iPad, so I could watch old episodes of Forensic Files while scrubbing the toilet. If the power went out, I could watch old episodes of Forensic Files while heating up dinner over a Sternocan. On any given weekend, you’d find me folding laundry, old episodes of Forensic Files looping from the iPad propped up on top of the dryer. Life without regular television isn’t so bad.

There are more bonuses, too. I can’t watch the news, so I never get worked up over politics or people behaving badly. If I can’t see or hear you, Donald Trump, I don’t have to waste precious energy hating you. I plan on buying a copy of Time magazine when the election gets closer to learn about the candidates before voting. Doesn’t that sound lovely? No commercials, no CNN, no Fox News. It’s a peaceful life I lead.

I will admit that there are a couple of television shows I can’t live without. One of them, Downton Abbey, is available for free online at PBS.org the day after the newest episode airs. For the others, God created the miracle known as the iTunes Season Pass, for He is a generous God. Sure, I have to pay $20 a season to watch The Walking Dead and Survivor, but again, this still beats rolling over a CD every month just to pay the cable bill. Plus, no commercials!

Some of my friends would say that because of my lack of regular television, I am alarmingly uninformed regarding current events. This may be true. But my blood pressure was 118/60 the last time I went for a physical. Did I miss a wildfire out in California that I can do nothing to stop, or the GOP debate? I sure did, and that’s just fine with me. I’m not completely uninformed, however. I do read the Block Island Times online on a regular basis. I’m well aware that Mark’s Beachcomber Hair Design is seeing an influx of windblown hair tragedies this week.

I feel for the windblown ladies—I really do. But life is short. And it’s just a little sweeter when I don’t have the weight of the world blasting at me from the television.

I’ve waxed poetic a few times about my favorite actors. But up until now, I haven’t shared my list of actors I can’t stand, mostly because that would be mean. However, I’m short on material this week, so I’ve decided to toss my instincts to not be cruel aside and instead trash some celebrities who have made a lot more money than I have doing something that, while doing it terribly, is still something I've never attempted. So here is my list of people who can't act:

10. Tom Green

Kind of a no-brainer with this guy. He’s not funny,  but he thinks he is, which makes him unfunny and obnoxious.

9. Tia Carrere

I give this woman a lot of credit for going on Dancing With The Stars something like six weeks after giving birth. I really do. But she can't act. I remember watching her in Wayne's World and thinking Huh. I didn't expect this lady to be the worst thing about this turdblossom of a movie.

8. Ryan Phillippe

Does anybody even remember what this vanilla milkshake of an actor has even done, besides marry Reese Witherspoon? (She did eventually realize she could do better and divorced him.) Did you know he was in Gosford Park, Flags of Our Fathers, and The Lincoln Lawyer? No? You didn't remember because he's bland, boring, and unremarkable.

7. Nicholas Cage

I am not over The Wicker Man yet. There are so many things I could've done with those wasted 102 minutes: visited a local garage to see how automobiles are fixed. Written a letter to my congressman about what a good job he's doing (if I knew his name, that is). Clipped my toenails. Something other than sitting through that crapfest. 
Also, he reminds one of my coworkers of someone she doesn't like. Strike two. And strike three, because Wicker Man.

6. Jean Claude Van Damme

I still can't figure out why anyone ever paid to see this guy in a movie. (I should also probably mention here that I don't particularly like movies with a lot of [read: any] martial arts.) I cringe when he opens his mouth. He's not handsome. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I'll admit I can forgive a lot if you're pretty to look at. Jason Statham: can't act, does a lot of fancy fighting in his movies, pretty to look at. I sure do love me some Jason Statham.

You, Mr. Van Damme, are no Jason Statham.

5. Rob Schneider

I hate picking on this guy, because everybody does. Plus, it's not like he has a huge, undeserved ego, like Tom Green. In fact, Tom Green should be higher on my list than this guy, because Green is an incompetent troll who thinks he's awesome. Let me reiterate: he is not. But I don't feel like renumbering the whole list, so just assume Schneider is 10 and Green is 5.
Rob Schneider: seems nice, but makes stupid films.

4. Ashton Kutcher

Honestly, if this guy hadn't married Demi Moore, I would still have no idea who he is. I think he was on some show once, and then he was on another show. He might've been in a movie, too. I don't know. Here's what I do know: he single-handedly caused every woman my age who dates a man even six months younger than her to now be referred to as a "cougar." Thanks a lot, jerk.

3. Emilio Estevez

The powers that be might revoke my "child of the eighties" card for this, but I'll confess, I never understood what the big deal was about Emilio Estevez. He was forgettable in The Outsiders, a total milk dud in St. Elmo's Fire, and the janitor in Breakfast Club turned in a better performance than this guy. The Mighty Ducks may have been the peak of his acting skills. Just terrible.

2. David Arquette

I often feel embarrassed for David Arquette when he shows up in something. He's not funny, his comedic timing is nonexistent, and he acts like idiocy is something to be proud of. How he ever got Courtney Cox to marry him is a mystery to this day. She said she fell in love with him because he was funny. When I read that, I mailed her a copy of Mad magazine with a note telling her to raise her standards.

1. David Caruso
I don’t know why this man irritates me so much, but if you want to see me change from mild-mannered, coffee-sipping farmer’s daughter to crazed, furious, shooting-flames-out-of-my-eye-sockets maniac in 2.3 seconds, change the channel to an old episode of CSI: Miami. I hate this guy’s voice, his face, his mannerisms, and have been known to screech, “He’s standing still too loudly! TURN IT OFF!” shrilly enough to shatter ice cubes. He can’t act, he’s not attractive, and he’s a condescending egomaniac. Did I say I didn’t know why he irritated me? Mystery solved.



There you have it. Agree with me, disagree,  or try to debate me about why martial arts films are great. (Is Jason Statham in it? No? Then no.) Here's what I know: my blog is now done for the week, and I truly hate David Caruso.

I’ve never been particularly attracted to the type of person who demands the spotlight. Growing up in the '80s, it was not the showboating Simon LeBon or sexy John Taylor who kept me tuning in to watch Duran Duran videos on MTV; it was the quiet keyboardist in the background who kind of looked like a girl that caught my interest. The same held true for movies and television. It was not River Phoenix who inspired me to watch Stand By Me seventeen times; I wanted to know more about the guy playing River’s older brother. You know: the actor who got approximately six seconds of screen time. Whatever happened to that guy?

I decided to take the time and investigate what, indeed, had happened to some of my favorite actors you have probably never heard of.

1. Bradley Gregg

With his dark curls and wide eyes, this seldom-seen actor’s appearances on the big screen always made my teenage heart go pitter-pat. This was the man who made the aforementioned role of Eyeball Chambers in Stand By Me unforgettable (in my book; others seem to have forgotten him entirely). He popped up in minor roles throughout the '80s, including as Phillip Anderson (the puppet guy) in Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors and as Sean O’Brien in the Lonesome Dove TV miniseries. You remember—the kid who was killed in spectacular fashion by water moccasins.

Where is he now?

Mr. Gregg dropped off the acting map, having only appeared in four minor roles after 1997. Incidentally, this is the same year that he has stated he found God. He started a film and video production company called Eventide Fields to make movies about how wonderful God is.

What? No drug problems, jail time, or syphilis scandals? This is not how I expect my teenage heartthrobs to wind up. I’m a bit disappointed.

2. Peter DeLuise

Back before Hollywood started making really crappy movies based on ’80s shows, tarnishing the reputation of television in a decade that really wasn’t that bad, there was an awesome little show on the up-and-coming Fox network called 21 Jump Street. While most girls my age were swooning over Johnny Depp in this ensemble piece, it was Peter DeLuise, playing Depp’s partner Doug Penhall, who had me giggling. He then went on to "star" (I use the term loosely) in Stargate SG-1, then disappeared. I thought.

Where is he now?

Peter has continued to act steadily in some really minor roles (“Witness #1” in Smile of April, for instance), never quite achieving the fame his costar found.
DeLuise is reportedly directing television shows, and did have a cameo in the 2012 movie 21 Jump Street. If I were to be honest, I’d tell you that the movie was a festering boil of stinking pus, but did I mention Peter DeLuise had a cameo in it? The teenage girl who still resides deep in my dark soul let loose a high-pitched squeeeee when he showed up on screen.

Also, DeLuise is now losing his hair, but does not shave his head. Yet another teenage crush to disappoint me.

3. Ian Ziering

Beverly Hills 90210 started airing when I was seventeen-year-old girl. I was 100% their target demographic. I missed nary an episode.

At the time, it was not the cocky and crazy Steve Sanders, played by Ian Ziering, who made me all gooey inside. I was a Jason Priestley gal, having adored him since his minor role as Tober in a 21 Jump Street episode. And I’m not gonna lie: Luke Perry was pretty dreamy, too. In my mind, Ziering was just there as the token blond to offset the other two dreamboats’ sideburns.

Then, a funny thing happened. 90210 ended, and Priestley and Perry faded off into that good night, banished to minor TV roles, failed sitcoms, and B movies. And Ziering began to pimp himself with the glee and gusto of a child who has just discovered that pudding not only tastes good, but is fun to fling, too.

Where is he now?

Ian (that’s eye-an, NOT eee-an) has been acting in bad television (Son of the Beach), good cartoons (he was the voice of Harry Osborn in the 2003 Spider-Man series, and Vinnie in Biker Mice from Mars), and the BEST made-for-TV movie series EVER: Sharknado and Sharknado 2: The Second One. He’s happy to pop up on reality television, making it to the semi-finals of Dancing with the Stars in 2005, and currently butting heads with Geraldo Rivera on Celebrity Apprentice. What I like most about this man is that he always, always, seems to be having the time of his life.

Upon meeting Ian Ziering in late 2014, my life came full circle. “Hi,” I said. “I’m your demographic.”

“Hello, demographic,” he said, flashing a wide grin, appearing for all the world to be having the time of his life among aging wrestlers in a crowded, body-odor-reeking convention. Jason Priestley and Luke Perry were but faded teenage memories. As an adult, I was now a full-fledged member of #TeamIan.

There you have it. In case you’ve lain in bed at night wondering what ever happened to the guy that chased River Phoenix on top of a train in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (hint: that, too, was Bradley Gregg), wonder no more. Eventually, we all grow up and find new things to interest us. (Sort of. Go #TeamIan!)

I may have mentioned in the past that I do not enjoy Christmas specials. I find them insipid, and they perpetuate horrible lies that only set children up for a lifetime of disappointment. While I despise Frosty, and find Rudolph sorely lacking in decent nasal hygiene, today I’m skewering the big guy himself. That’s right: you’re going down, Santa Claus is Coming to Town!

A nauseating effort from Rankin & Bass, or as I like to call them, Ache In My As—never mind, you get the picture--Santa Claus is Coming to Town stars Fred Astaire as the narrator. Thanks, Fred, for teaching kids that even the most reputable of actors will prostitute themselves for a buck.

This holiday special starts with a little kid named Claus being discarded on the doorstep of Burgermeister Meisterburger. Meisterburger is portrayed as the villain here, simply because he doesn’t want to raise a baby, has probably spent his whole life actively avoiding having children, and yet some idiot too stupid to use birth control abandons her baby on this guy’s porch and he’s the “bad guy” for sending the kid away to an orphanage. Whatever, Ache In My As—just whatever. The baby never makes it to the orphanage, because he’s kidnapped by a bunch of scary woodland creatures and dumped in a village full of trolls (sure, call them Kringles if you want to cutesy them up, but you’re not fooling anyone). The trolls call the kid Kris and start teaching him how to make toys. Toys, you realize, are illegal in the nearest village, Sombertown. This is the equivalent of setting a child up with his or her own home meth lab. Don’t you stupid trolls understand what illegal means?

Since Kris has now been raised to blatantly ignore and flaunt the law, he volunteers to deliver toys to the kids in Sombertown. No, you didn’t read that wrong—he’s volunteering to hand out illegal contraband to young children. This does not make Meisterburger happy, since he was once viciously attacked by a toy duck, resulting in a sprained ankle that surely required physical therapy and probably still aches every time it snows. Meisterburger demands that Kris Kringle be arrested, but the outlaw gets away, birdnapping a penguin named Topper in the process. Kris also manages to seduce a teacher named Jessica before leaving town. Lessons learned: penguins make adorable pets, breaking the law is okay if you don’t agree with said law, and those schoolteachers sure do go for bad boys.

I really hate this Christmas special.

Kris meets the Winter Warlock, bribes him to be his friend by giving him a cheap toy train, and returns to Sombertown. (I should mention here that he returns to town to bring the kids more toys after Meisterburger was forced to burn all of the old ones for heat to keep warm. ABC no longer shows the toy-burning scene, because it's "too scary," which is the politically correct way to say they are a bunch of corporate wussies.) Kris, Topper, and the Winter Warlock are thrown in jail (and rightly so—you’re breaking the law!) and all seems lost. But wait! Old Man Winter there, a bit of a hippie, has some “magic corn” that can make reindeer “fly.” The reindeer get high and break Kris and company out of jail. Lessons learned: jailbreaks are fun, and when an aging hippie offers you drugs that will make you fly, by golly, take them.

Eventually Kris marries Jessica, they become Santa and Mrs. Claus, and the trolls become “elves.” The old stoned winter hippie makes it snow (har har, I’ll bet he does). Burgermeister Meisterburger, misunderstood his whole sad life, dies toyless and alone. Fred Astaire collects a sizeable paycheck, and they all live happily ever after.

Bah.

If you've ever met me, then you know that I've met Survivor winner Richard Hatch, because it's something I like to work into the first twenty seconds of every conversation I have. I've actually met a lot of celebrities, pseudo-celebrities, and local personalities, but Mr. Hatch ranks in my Top Five (the other four being Duran Duran, Dee Snider, "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan, and Tony Goldwyn, if you were wondering. Oh, and Jake "The Snake" Roberts. Top Six. Whatever.) But why do I insist on gushing about Richard Hatch so much? I think the only way you'll see what a kind, decent, generous, and funny human being he was is if I recreate our meeting for you. (Disclaimer: the following recreation might not be exactly how it went. But close.)

The setting: Rhode Island Comic Con, November 1, 2013. STACEY LONGO and author ROB WATTS are walking up and down the aisles as the vendors begin to unpack. The show hasn't opened yet, but because JASON HARRIS made them arrive three hours early to set up a table display that takes 25 minutes to prepare, they have some time to kill.

As they round the corner past the Batmobile display, STACEY spots a veeeery familiar face.

STACEY: Oh my God. That's Richard Hatch. I'm going to go talk to him.

ROB: Don't you want to wait until he takes off his coat, at least? It looks like he just arriv--

STACEY: (approaching Richard Hatch) Hi! Ohmahgerd, I love you! Last year they said Richard Hatch was going to be here but it turned out to be some old guy from Battlestar Galactica. I was so mad that it wasn't you, I pouted all weekend! ROB, remember how upset I was?

ROB: Um, sure.

RICHARD HATCH: Er, hi. You don't seem weird or stalkerish at all. Sometimes I get the other Richard Hatch's mail.

STACEY: Honestly, and don't tell Tommy Howell this, but you were, like, the only person I wanted to meet here this weekend. I just love you!

RICHARD HATCH: You know I'm gay, right?

STACEY: Oh, I'm not hitting on you. I'm married. (RICHARD HATCH looks at ROB WATTS apologetically.) Not to him, either (motions towards ROB). My husband is at our vendor table, lint rolling our tablecloth. He's going to be sooo mad that I met you already! We own the first season of Survivor on DVD and I've made him watch it, like, seventeen times. Have you seen it, ROB? Do you want to borrow it? (ROB WATTS shakes head, smiles apologetically at RICHARD HATCH.)

RICHARD HATCH: Oh, you have a table here? What are you selling?

STACEY: Books. We're horror writers (points to herself and ROB WATTS, then shoves ROB aside). Here's a copy of my short story collection. It would be my honor to give you a copy. Also, I mention you in every single story.

RICHARD HATCH: Surprisingly, that is still not creepy or stalkerish at all. I'd be honored! (Takes book.)

STACEY: Wow, you don't seem like an obnoxious jerk at all. I guess you really can't believe everything you see on television. I've been bamboozled! (Laughs nervously.) Get it? Like you said on Survivor: Borneo? Bamboozled? Er . . .

RICHARD HATCH: Yes, I remember. Very clever. And it's always nice to hear that I'm not really an a**hole.

STACEY: Listen, I have to go gush to my husband that I met you. I'll probably get all weepy and breathless, and I don't want you to see that. Would it be okay if I stopped by your table 46 more times over the weekend and pick your brain about who's going to win this season of Survivor,  and about how jail was, and what Jeff Probst's dimples really look like up close?

RICHARD HATCH: Why, that sounds delightful. I look forward to it!

Yes, gentle reader, I did in fact spend 80% of my time that weekend at Mr. Hatch's table. He was kind enough to tolerate me, and I learned that jail was awful (though he got a lot of reading done), Richard won't speculate on who will win any given season of Survivor (though we agreed that Vytas was pretty clever on the season that was airing at the time), and that Jeff Probst's dimples are even deeper than they appear on television. Overall, it was one of the most pleasant experiences of my life, which is why, as you'll now understand, I try to mention it as much as possible. Over dinner, during job interviews, while waiting in line at the grocery store . . . incidentally, none of my friends have wanted to hang out with me since November. Including my sister.

They're all just jealous.

Jason and I rent a lot of movies from the local library. Recently, we discovered the first season of the Smurfs cartoon hiding in the children's section. Being two mature adults with no children, we immediately decided to rent it. I'll chalk it up to a Gen-X nostalgia thing.
We were excited to revisit this favorite cartoon from our childhoods. There was Papa Smurf, Brainy Smurf, and Grouchy Smurf (my personal favorite). We sang along to the theme song (the overcomplicated "la,la, la-la-la-la" came back to us quickly) and tucked in for some quality entertainment.
I'll admit, I chuckled the first few times Grouchy said "I hate Smurfberries!" and "I hate gag gifts that blow up in my face!" I remembered why he was my favorite as a kid--I was a bit of a grouch myself. But after a while, it got a little predictable. Kind of a one-note joke, that Grouchy. I'm sure I found him hilarious when I was a child, especially since up until the age of 8, my only brush with real, honest-to-goodness humor was my cousin Lori, who had the amazing talent of being able to hang a spoon off of her nose. Still cracks me up to this day. But I digress. It turns out that Grouchy wasn't nearly as funny as I remembered.
The Smurfs were cute, for a while, but a few more things came back to me. Like how it was no wonder why Jason and I remembered the theme song, since the stupid Smurfs sang it about sixteen times during every episode. And how Smurfette's voice always reminded me of howling cats clawing a chalkboard. I seem to have forgotten what a little tart she was, toying with the Smurfs' emotions. (Even Papa Smurf was smitten with her, which makes him a dirty old Smurf.) Plus, I'd forgotten what an annoying suck-up Brainy Smurf was. And how stupid, if not borderline malicious, Jokey Smurf's tricks were. 
Jokey's malevolent explosive gifts were only the beginning. I quickly became alarmed at how cruel and violent the Smurfs were, particularly towards Gargamel and Azrael. (Did I say Grouchy Smurf was my favorite? I always loved Azrael as a kid, probably because he was a cat.) Sure, Gargamel was evil and always wanted to eat the Smurfs, but that doesn't give those little blue gremlins the right to try and murder the man and his cat. Within the first three episodes, Azrael was thrown from a tall tree, nearly roasted to death by a dragon, and, of course, had not one, but two presents from Jokey Smurf blow up in his face. It's all fun and games until the cat loses his whiskers, folks, and it happened no less than seventy times in the first season. Those Smurfs owed Azrael an apology and a whole lot of tuna.
I also realized that the show took a lot of liberties substituting the word "smurf" for regular words. At first, it seemed okay, even kind of cute. 
"That's smurf-tastic!"
"Have a smurfy day!"
"Let's get the smurf out of here!"

 Umm . . . what was that last one? 
Apparently, the writers of the show must have thought it was funny to substitute "smurf" for--dare I say it?--vulgarities. Throughout each 23-minute episode, expressions like "He really smurfed us!" and "What the smurf is that?" abounded. Sure, sometimes there were other words that weren't dirty that maybe they might have meant, but substituting "He really scared us!" instead of "He really smurfed us!" doesn't quite work after Gargamel throws a bunch of Smurfs in a cooking pot and sets it to boil. I call shenanigans!
By the time we finished The Smurfs: Season 1, I was feeling a little disillusioned. I didn't know whether to call PETA about the mistreatment of Azrael or call the library and tell them exactly what I thought of their smurfing video. Gone was the innocence of my younger days, when all was happy, innocent, and smurfy. I was left feeling empty, hollow, and totally smurfed.
I decided to make myself some hot chocolate and watch something more innocent, like a Disney movie. Because nothing bad could happen in The Fox and the Hound, right? Right?
Turns out, in the words of Grouchy Smurf, I hate The Fox and the Hound. I was better off with those filthy Smurfs.

Another year has passed, and you're probably wondering how my 2013 was. Wonder no more: Here are my highlights from the past year!

January: January 23rd came and went without any injuries to my knees. Since it was January 23, 2011, that I fell while ice skating and tore my MCL and chipped my knee cap, I tend to dread this date now. Also, I turned 40 this month. My family and friends plied me with lots of chocolate cake, so it wasn't so bad.

February: This was the month that I failed miserably at my attempt to follow the Atkins Diet in what will forever be known as "The Great Chocolate Mousse Cake Intervention." After recovering from my sugar withdrawal, I decided it would be healthier and safer for all involved if I ditched the diet and just bought bigger pants.

March: A low point in my year. Yes, I ate chocolate cake on my sister's birthday, but I had a sinus infection for most of the month. This was the month when I discovered home remedies for illness don't work that well. Also, if you chug apple cider vinegar, it will make you vomit.

April: This was the month we filed our taxes. Also, we realized we could no longer afford chocolate cake. I thought March was bad? Hah!

May: My addiction to Downton Abbey began in May. My mother and sister forced me to start watching this series (by mentioning that it was good) and my life was changed forever. Side effects have included talking in a mangled British accent and dressing like the Dowager Countess. Withdrawal symptoms can be easily managed by re-watching seasons over and over again on Netflix.

June: This month, I wrote an introspective letter to my teenage self. Highlights: I still love Duran Duran, and I have turned into my mother.

July: I went to see Stephen King at the Bushnell. He failed to acknowledge my existence. Hack.

August: This month, I listed the top ten sexiest actors ever. People universally hailed my list as "shallow" and "ridiculous."

September: Jason and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary by watching Sharknado and eating chocolate cake. Mmm, cake.

October: My book, Secret Things, came out this month. Hooray! This enabled me to brag that I had a book out, and meant that 3/4 of my Christmas shopping list was done. Didn't get a copy of Secret Things for Christmas? When's your birthday?

November: On November 2nd, I fulfilled a lifelong dream (or at least a dream I've had since the first season of Survivor aired) and met Richard Hatch. Now, besides bragging about having a book out, I could brag about meeting Richard Hatch. Life is good.

December: With every good thing that happens (see: meeting Richard Hatch) life has to throw a few dirty snowballs at you to keep things even. I had to sit through no less than seven crappy holiday specials this month, including Santa Claus is Coming to Town (insipid), Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (wishy-washy), and 'Twas the Night Before Christmas (nauseating). Also, because of all the cookies, there was no chocolate cake. But at least I got to meet Richard Hatch. 

Here's hoping for a fabulous 2014! And more Richard Hatch!

I may have mentioned in the past that I'm not a fan of stupid Christmas specials. One of the worst offenders, of course, is 'Twas the Night Before Christmas.
Surely you've seen this insipid tale of a clockmaker with a rodent problem. Joshua Trundle and his family, who all have ridiculously huge ears, painfully pointy chins, and bigger teeth than the Kennedy clan, discover that Santa is returning all of their letters unopened. How can this be? What's going on?
Turns out the family of mice Trundle's been breeding in his walls contains a pretty obnoxious rodent named Albert who managed to offend Santa Claus with his snotty attitude. Had Trundle put out some rat poison like every other normal human being who finds mouse droppings in the pantry, this problem would've never happened. But noooo, Trundle fancies himself the Mouse Whisperer or something, and actually lets these creatures run rampant throughout the house. You're creating your own problems there, Bucktooth.
Apparently, Albert the Mouse wrote a letter to the paper saying Santa was a fraud. Perhaps you're asking, Why does a mouse even care about Santa? Or even, Who taught a mouse to write? I'd personally be thinking Hold the poison, I think I might be able to make a few bucks off of this talking, writing rat, but that's just me. Trundle thinks none of these thoughts. Instead, he decides to solve the problem by building Santa a singing clock.
Now, everybody with half a brain knows that Santa is absolutely open to bribery, if you've got the right goods. Namely, cookies and milk, and maybe a carrot for Rudolph thrown in for good measure. Not, I repeat, NOT, a singing clock. Doesn't matter anyway--Albert, the obnoxious twerp that he is, breaks Trundle's clock before the hands can even be set to the correct time.
Albert's father is not amused. Papa Mouse drags his rotten little son to a children's hospital, where all of the sick kids are sobbing because Santa's throwing a temper tantrum over Albert's letter. Does this impressive guilt trip  cause Albert to repent? Heck no. However, when he overhears Bucktooth singing a song about miracles needing a hand, he melts like butter. What a load of crap. You've got a budding psychopath on your hands there, Papa Mouse.
Albert races to fix the clock before midnight. He fails, but at 12:01 AM, the song starts playing, wooing Santa back to town. Kids are cheering in the streets, which makes me wonder what the heck is wrong with the parents in Junctionville. Why is your kid even up at 12:01 AM, and outside in the streets wearing nothing but pajamas? It's freezing out! You are a BAD PARENT. Nobody in your house deserves a visit from Santa.
Santa comes anyway, which just exemplifies why this whole story is terrible. One little mouse writes a snotty letter and Santa's willing to pout like a petulant child and cut off the whole town from Christmas, but every single parent allows their brats to run rampant in the streets on Christmas Eve, and they're rewarded for it? Not to mention the little whiners in the children's hospital bawling all day. I don't think so. Santa will give you something to cry about. Personally, I'd like to think Santa has higher expectations than that for all of us.
What I'd like to see in this crappy holiday tale is a happy ending. Like, for instance, if Santa gifted the Trundle family with a nice new cat. Say, perhaps, one that comes from a long line of expert mousers.

Dear Female Human That Lives In My House,

Pugsley the Cat here. You foolishly left your laptop open while taking a shower (and who do you think you are, anyway? Too good to lick yourself all over like the rest of us?) which has allowed me this opportunity to get a few things off my chest.
Let me remind you that I am gracious enough to let you live in this house with me. I don't even charge rent. All I ask for in return is complete run of the house, food on demand, and the understanding that if there's a lap available, it's my God-given right to jump on it. Which brings me to Abuse #1: How dare you insist on shutting the bathroom door every time you use it, even though you know darn well that you're denying me a perfectly good lap to jump on whenever you sit on the toilet? The nerve! No matter how loudly I meow at the door and swat my paw underneath it to remind you that I'm supposed to be in there with you, you ignore me. This is exactly the reason why I've been chewing on all of the electrical cords in the house--frustration at being locked out of the bathroom. It's your fault, really.
Second on the list is the stupid pet names. I'm getting pretty tired of being called "puddin' face" or "fuzzy britches" when you come home. As in "Get out from under my feet, fuzzy britches!" I find it demeaning and rude. My name is Pugsley, thank you very much, and I will walk wherever I please. If you don't like it, go move in with a dog person. Like your friend Kathy. You think I can't smell her dog on your pants leg every time you come home from visiting her? I bet you even pet that dog, too. I guess what my mother told me is true: once a cheater, always a cheater.
I also didn't appreciate your reaction the first time my sister, Wednesday, went into heat. She's the one who came on to me. Sure, hump your sister just once, and it's off to the vet for both of you! It's going to take a few more cans of tuna before I forgive you for that very unpleasant visit.
Just a side note: when in bed, I prefer to jump on the purple fleece blanket. Please stop using the Holstein-print microfiber blanket. It itches my whiskers.
I would also like to address the issue of television. Just because I don't have opposable thumbs, it seems like you don't think I should have any say in what we watch on TV at night. Quite frankly, I'm a little tired of Survivor and The Walking Dead. Both of these shows are extremely prejudicial against cats. How can you possibly have a whole show about life after the zombie apocalypse without mentioning once how cats will ultimately save the day  with a zombie-crippling bout of cat scratch fever? Not one person on your stupid show has even referred to that. Plus, if you mention one more time how cool it was to meet Richard Hatch, I'm going to vomit into your slippers. Your taste in television sucks. Would it kill you to throw on Shark Week once in a while?
Finally, if I am staring at you with wide eyes and mewling softly while nibbling on your eyelid, would it be too much to ask that you maybe pet me for an hour? Honestly, I just want to be loved. How am I supposed to know that it's 2:30 in the morning? I really feel that your threat to feed me to the coyotes was unnecessary. I want you to remember this when you discover that I've been piddling behind the couch for months now.

Well, I can hear you downstairs on the phone telling your mother about meeting your favorite Survivor, so it's time for me to go barf up a hairball into your slippers. You were warned.

Pugsley