2015 Layne Family Christmas Letter

It is once again that festive time of year when we gather around the Christmas tree, raise our steaming mugs of mulled wine, and join together singing Negro spirituals.

Sadly, the Laynes have dedicated 2015 to proving themselves the most boring family on Earth, resulting in perhaps the dullest edition of this tome ever.  You’d think they could at least count on Taffy to get skunked or eaten by a coyote, but alas, no.  If they don’t step up their game in 2016, their humdrum existence and inability to do anything even remotely interesting or humorous may spell the end of this annual treatise to the foibles of family hood.

Amanda's sophomore year is proving no more kind in terms of homework or her social discomfort.  She finds high school girls a disingenuous gaggle of despicable , backstabbing, self-absorbed narcissists concerned only with their own Snapchat stories, and the school itself a fetid petri dish of virulent disease.  So far, she has fought the urge to follow fully in Howard Hughes footsteps, stopping short of refusing to trim her fingernails or engaging in profligate substance abuse.  Karen and Mark hope the bio-containment suit they bought her for Xmas fits.

The victim of successive concussions during her freshman soccer season, Amanda is the only student in her driver’s education class who wears a crash helmet and balaclava – not because she is reckless, but in case some old woman on a mobility scooter races past and runs her off the road.  For Thanksgiving, Amanda traveled to Colorado with some friends to visit a former classmate who moved there to flee religious persecution and partake in the many medicinal benefits of cannabis.  It was nice to have only one child at home to complain during the holidays.  Karen and Mark are already planning her summer-long trip to Sri Lanka.

Speaking of Thanksgiving, Leslie and Jayson ventured north to join us once again.  Jayson continues to grow at such a violent pace that he will soon overtake Texas as the second largest state in the union.  Leslie has been forced to special order his shoes from a shipbuilder in Newport News, VA.

Speaking of shoes, Allyson was placed under a special order of protection by the FBI when they discovered radical Islamic terrorists wanted to use her feet to develop a deadly neuro toxin.  It all started when Karen’s car was impounded by Homeland Security after Ally left her softball cleats in back overnight, causing the morning car pool passengers to become nauseated and disoriented.

Fortunately, Ally and Amanda are getting along better – on alternate Tuesdays.  Having grown tired of listening to Amanda bemoan her disease du jour, Ally has generously extended an open invitation to escort Amanda to the “dying hole.”

For Spring Break, the clan endured the 6.2 million mile car ride to Sanibel, FL, for the annual Bald Guys Gone Wild festivities.  After driving for sixteen days, they arrived at the quaint island paradise populated primarily by bicycle-wielding octogenarians.  Tragedy was narrowly averted when Karen veered off the bike path and tumbled into a Mangrove swamp, almost losing the tomato she just purchased at the local market for $17.95.  Fortunately, she protected the rented bike from serious damage, using her body to cushion its fall.  Though badly bruised and humiliated, her security deposit was returned in full.

Speaking of the beach, Mark continues to gradually disintegrate like a sand castle at high tide.  Owing to his once beloved University of Illinois’ steadfast dedication to bolstering its reputation as the bellwether for malfeasance and mismanagement in higher education, Mark has traded his Bachelor’s degree for a certificate of completion from the Pivot Point School of Beauty and Cosmetology.  He’s offering a special on French manicures during the month of January.  Book your appointments now.

As J.B. Priestly said of Christmas, “Something in me resists the calendar expectation of happiness.”

Nevertheless, Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, and Taffy      

Illinois (Dis)Loyalty

Amidst the clumsy handling of Tim Beckman's long overdue entry into the annals of Illinois football mediocrity, the University of Illinois finds itself embroiled in yet another scandal serving to tarnish the reputation of my once proud Alma Mater.

With this in mind, I am sponsoring a contest to re-write Illinois Loyalty to more befit the University's current laughing stock stature.  The top three entries (selected by me) will receive one of my old U of I T-shits, size large, that I am now too ashamed to wear.  Submit by using the contact form at www.workingwordsproductions.com.

My attempt is below:


We’re embarrassed for you, Illinois

You haven’t a clue, Illinois.

You’ve tested our pride,

The alumni will hide,

We’ve abandoned your side, Illinois.

Ha, ha.

So pack up your ball, Illinois

Prepare for a fall, Illinois

Our spirit is broke

Your reputation’s a joke

We can’t stop laughing at you, Illinois

Hee-hee, hee-ha, hee-ha-ha-ha.

Oh, Illini, oh!

Hee-hee, hee-ha, hee-ha-ha-ha.

Oh, Illini, oh!

Illinois, Illinois, Illinois

Throw out that spirit wear of

Orange and Blue

Have all your sons and daughters

Enroll at Purdue

Wave goodbye to tradition

Enter sedition, won’t pay your tuition

 

Ouchy-ow-ow!

 

Amid the scandals yearly

Rocking our land

For graft and exploitation

You proudly stand

Our loyalty has sadly reached an end

Dear Alma Mater, Illinois

What About the "Loser" Hats?

 

 

Last night, my beloved Chicago Blackhawks won their third Stanley Cup in six years. 

 

Given the unpredictable nature of hockey, the marketing geniuses at the NHL were no doubt prepared for the eventuality of either team raising the Cup.

 

Makes me wonder what will become of the "Loser" hats, T-Shirts, and memorabilia which were ready and waiting for Game 7, and are now forgotten in the basement of Amalie Arena or some lonely Tampa warehouse?  Will it all be returned to the manufacturer?

I'm left to imagine a remote tribe of aboriginal South Pacific islanders wandering proudly amongst their thatched huts, all wearing Tampa Bay Lightning 2015 Stanley Cup Champions gear that magically fell from the sky.  Losers. 
 



 

Daylight Savings (And Other Lies)

It is once again that time of year where we, the reasonably intelligent citizens of the United States, consent to participate in the semiannual sham of Daylight Savings.
 

I am frankly insulted that our leaders in Washington believe we are stupid enough to buy into the premise that merely by advancing our clocks by one hour, we will lead happier, more productive lives.  Thank you, Mr. President, for providing me an extra hour each spring to reset the hundred or so clocks and timers in my home, office, and vehicles.  One more hour, and I might remember how to reset my digital watch as well.
 

Even those of us who bought into the stories of an alien weather balloon crashing in New Mexico, or that nonsense about Lance Armstrong landing on the moon, are hard pressed to swallow the idea that advancing our clocks by one hour will earn us an extra sixty minutes to work, play, or make prank phone calls to the Department of Homeland Security.  (“Do you have Prince Sultan in a can?” Or, “Is that a warhead in your pants, or are you just glad to see me?”)
 

Newsflash: In search of this elusive 25th hour, NASA scientists, using a sophisticated mathematical algorithm, were able to prove that during Daylight Savings, there are still only twenty-four hours in a day!  

Listen up, Washington DC: the progression of time is a fact of nature.  Irrespective of what the clock indicates, even a television meteorologist knows the per diem amount of sunlight remains relatively consistent during any given month of any given year.  End of debate.
 

Still not convinced?  One need only look to the behavior of your own children to see that messing with time runs contrary to the laws of nature.
 

Except for those parts altered by the consumption of genetically modified corn, young children are more-or-less creatures of nature.  As such, they are not roused into daily consciousness by the ticking of a clock, but instead by their own Cicadian rhythms – that primordial force within which causes them to rise from their beds and demand food.

Following this logic, I always assumed the sun had far more to do with society’s productivity than the time of day.  

Vampires and teenagers notwithstanding, I have observed when the sun comes up, most folks tend to rouse into consciousness. Conversely, when the sun sets, we begin yawn and feel sleepy.  On dark, cloudy days, it’s tough to get out of bed.  On bright sunny days, we often wake with the birds.

Speaking of birds, the digital alarm on my nightstand faces a window.  Never have I observed a single avian species perched on my windowsill attempting to see whether it was time to commence their bird-like activities.

    
     Bluejay: “Is it time to crap on that dude’s car?”

     Robin: “Let me check my fake Rolex.”

     Bluejay: “Well?  What’s it say?”

     Robin: “No clue.  I can’t tell time.”  

Nor do the other sundry creatures which roam our neighborhood appear sensitive to the hour. I expect this would hold true even if we set our clocks ahead by ten hours.

But if DST is considered so absurd by the scientific community, and likewise contrary to natural law, why do we continue to observe it?

It seems the origins of Daylight Savings Time can be traced to an ill-conceived political response to growing pressure on the agricultural industry to provide food to America’s booming post-World War II population.

It was believed at the time that providing more sunlight at the end of the day during growing season would allow farmers to find their way home from their favorite taverns before dark, thus preventing countless implement related amputations. Nowadays, with the bulk of our agricultural production outsourced to China, this once revolutionary initiative appears to have outlived its usefulness.

The state of Indiana, a long-time holdout in the DST battle, had for decades refused to join with the rest of the country in observing Daylight Savings.  As a result, Hoosiers (a French term meaning “Gesundheit”) kept their clocks permanently set to noon Eastern because, according to Indiana Department of Agriculture spokesman Terry Haute, “The cows need milkin’ when they need a milkin’ and the corn don’t grow no faster.”

In a dark day for sanity, Indiana eventually passed legislation to honor Daylight Savings.  The motion carried by a narrow margin, barely defeating a bill proposed by Indiana’s large Amish community which would have abolished time altogether and made possession of any mechanical timepiece other than a sundial illegal.

 

What’s more, our constant meddling with the time-space continuum does little to bolster our reputation with the rest of the developed world.  Europeans are sitting back right now, laughing at our arrogant disregard for the laws of the physical universe, mocking us for believing that by merely passing a proclamation, we can cause today to become one hour longer than the day before.

    
“Basil, have you any idea what the time is across the pond?”
 

“Really, Reginald. What with their willy-nilly clock fiddling, it’s anybody’s guess.”

 

“I suppose you’re right.”  [Yawn.]  “Pass the sheep intestines.”

Truly, this biannual attempt at chronological alchemy is tantamount to reordering the periodic table of elements, rearranging the points on a compass, or requiring politicians to tell the truth. 

Fact: the stuff inside your Aquafina bottle will still have two hydrogen something-or-others to every oxygen thingamajig whether or not we arbitrarily alter its atomic number from H20 to UB40. Likewise, swapping the “W” for the “N” on your compass will no more cause the needle to point in a direction other than north than it will water to run uphill.

Of course logic and common sense have never been a priority in America.  Just ask those first plucky individuals who climbed aboard boats the size of modern day sofas, and after washing ashore at Plymouth Rock, gazed out upon the wild, untamed landscape, lousy with dangerous creatures and Indians, and set about to invent the International Dateline.