Twas the night before Kushmas and all through the house
Not a toker was smoking a gram, eighth or ounce
All of the glass had been washed with great care
With the hopes that old Santa Kush soon would be there.

The tokers were faded and watching TV
But were puffin on shake ’cause their bags were empty.
Mamma with her bubbler and I with my Roor
Wanted phat sticky nugs; Where’s the hookup, let’s go!

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
I said, “Dude, is it cops? Damn man, what’s the matter?”
And I was going to hide my gear in a flash
But I was too faded to move off my ass.

Till down from the chimney who should appear
But Rah Santa Kush himself off his eight stoned reindeer.
Down the chimney old Santa Kush came with a sigh
He was dressed all in fur and damn man…he was high.
A big sack full of baggies he’d flung on his back
And he looked like a rasta when he opened that pack.
His eyes, they were glassy, and red as two cherries
And the rest of his mug was all ashy and hairy.
A nice fat green stem he kept stuck in his teeth
And the smoke of sleigh hits framed his head like a wreath.

And I laughed when I saw him and I said, “Hey mannnn….”
But he said not a word, he just held out his hand.
And inside was the stickiest, crunchiest bud
A freshly trimmed ounce hit my hands with a thud.
Then he gave me a nod and breathed smoke thru his nose
And with a stoney “420″ up the chimney he rose.

And up on the roof he called reindeer by name
Cause millions more tokers still wanted the same.
“On Reefer, on Keefer, on Blazer, on Hazy…”
“On Maui, on Waui, on Blitzed, and on Lazy…”

And I heard him exclaim as he pulled out of sight,
“Merry Kushmas to all, now pass me a light.”

1. Go to bakery and order one big cookie .**

2. Request a bag “to go.” Don’t eat big cookie.  

3. Clear a flat, open workspace, where power tools would be appropriate.

4. Take hammer and pummel cookie into hundreds of small pieces.***

5. Slowly eat crumbs.

* Assuming a “poverty diet” of Top Ramen and tap water doesn’t do the trick.  
** For Christmas, gingerbread and butter cookies decorated in a rolled fondant can be substitutes. 
*** Hammer works best, but ex-girlfriend’s Burberry Trench Belt riding boots ($795) can be used for pummeling as well. 

It sounds straight

The temptress was a giant green candy with legs. But wait, it gets better.

Soon, she’s draped across a chaise, long leg dangling from the side as rose petals rain down. While bouncing on a satin bed, the accompanying music is best described as synthesizer porn. It ends with Green splayed on the floor, chocolate bosom heaving out, legs stretching up towards heaven.

“Are we good?” she asks a leering crew. Only after we cut away does she reach for a bleezy and shot of Jack Daniels. All of which begs the question: How did Miss Green M&M become a candy porn star?

In the 1980’s, M&M’s were a wholesome brand. They were the candy who took you on sleigh rides at Christmas. They melted in your mouth, not in your hand. In other words, not even eating them was dirty. Their jingle was sung by a children’s choir.

But things changed in 1984, when Jesus’ chocolate rainbow of goodness became an arrow in sin’s arsenal. The devil came dressed as a little league commercial, two boys playing candy baseball: Brown is a single, yellow is a double, orange is a triple, and green, you guessed it, is a homerun.

Eat green M&M’s and score, that was the lesson being imparted to boys approaching junior high. The thought of our carnal destiny realized thanks to the mojo of little green capsules filled us with anticipation. It was like we had discovered Viagra! The rules of the schoolyard were quietly known. Give green M&M’s to a girl if you wanted to hook up with her. If she ate them, she got horny.

Mars, eventually, grew wise to our dealings. Gone were ads of boys in bow ties thanking the Easter bunny, replaced by a sly and sexy interrogative, “Is it true what they say about the green ones?” Miss Green became a femme fatale, a Smurfette for the twenty-first century. She publicly kicked it with Eva Longoria, bared her shell for Playcandy, and—I’m really not making this up—handcuffed herself to a sequoia while grinding it like a stripper pole.

“Working the Polls,” the caption reads. I think they did this for the election.

Borne on playgrounds and little league fields, Miss Green’s exhibitionist streak has now gone international. Sexy campaigns are grinding full throttle in Asia and the Middle East. A Premium candy just debuted, promising to tantalize and tickle our taste buds. Sex sells, and while children and bunnies are fine and dandy, they’re no match for the sluttiness of candy! Behold the infinite possibilities: Twins hawking Kit Kats. Rolos for swingers. The true meaning behind Almond Joy.

But beware, Miss Green, of sexy’s pitfalls, for a siren’s life is rarely sweet. Ask the girls on Hollywood Boulevard, dancing nights to make the rent, no good boyfriends long gone, left with a case of Hep C. If you’re lucky, you’ll write a well-received memoir with Neil Strauss and describe the book as a “cautionary tale.”

You’ll see, you’ll see.

Want to Share This Story? Use our ShareThis feature below to email “How Green M&M Got Sassy,” post a link in your blog, or share it on your Facebook, Stumbleupon, and Myspace pages.

 By Katrina Elder

It’s decided. I’m banning Whole Foods. I’m tired of the abuse. Tired of feeling guilty after every shopping trip, or having to pretend I care when, really, I don’t. It’s not because their prices are astronomical or their claims are false. It’s not even because the tiny parking lot maze they created causes more problems than it solves. No, I’m banning Whole Foods because I’m tired of being attacked by the clipboard-wielding guilt mongers that plant themselves strategically outside the exit and play on your conscience as you walk to your hybrid armed only with one measly $50 bag of produce. It’s not a fair fight, I tell you!

How am I supposed to feel when you ask me if I have time for abused children or if I care about global warming? Of course, I don’t want bunnies to go blind or polar bears to become homeless, but seriously, how was I supposed to know about the dolphins becoming deaf? You’ve profiled me. You know by my choice of grocery stores that I have a conscience. You know that I put my money where my mouth is when it comes to finding solutions to the many problems our world faces. You have the advantage. What weapon do I have in this fight? I am forced to sign your stupid petition and put money into your already lined pockets.

Yeah, that’s right, I’m on to you. You with your PETA tee shirt and your leather Converse, your dread-locked hair and your gas-guzzling VW bus. I know you get paid per signature. I know you’re really just a “petition circulator” and not a volunteer. Wetlands. Global Warming. Net Neutrality. The Water Shortage. Black Holes. Plastic Bags. The Grey Wolf. The Boreal Forest. Nuclear Smuggling. What will my signature do for you tomorrow?

Please, just leave me in peace. Let my conscience have a rest for one night. Can’t you see I feel badly enough after spending twice what I would have at Ralph’s in order to feel better about the previous life of my skinless, boneless breast of chicken?

Really, all I want to do right now is get home to my pint of melting Häagen-Dazs Dolce de Leche and my bottle of Rhône red and forget. Forget about the hypocrisy that we’re both foolishly playing into and the lies I just can’t quite bring myself to believe.

Katrina Elder is a writer and performer in Hollywood, California. Check out her blog, Stages of Drudgery and Triumph at http://drudgeryandtriumph.blogspot.com/

1. Order hot tea. Pay cashier $1.45 **

2. Sit, work, read, talk, or whatever you do for an hour

3. Proceed to next Starbucks

4. Present cup with lid removed. Request hot water refill.***

5. Repeat to infinity

* Assumes you’re willing to forgo Starbucks marble pound cake.
** Unless you ordered a Banana Walnut loaf. In this case, add $1.85.
*** Don’t order the grande mocha frap with shot of peppermint.

“Stop all the presses! Loop the raw feed!
Get on the wire! We’ve got a new lead!”
The reporters and cameras all fight to keep pace
With the fast breaking news of egg splattered on face.

“This just coming in,” the news anchors exhort.
“To the White House we go for this special report.”

“We’re on the South Lawn,” the reporters exclaim,
“On what moments before was a typical day,
The sun shining bright, the scene festive and gay,
The Marine Band on hand getting ready to play.
It was billed by his staff as a keen photo-op.
The commander en route to the first of three stops:
A factory, school, and then he would fly straight
To a party fundraiser. Ten-thousand a plate.

From the West Wing at 8:42 did he come
Through the Rose Garden on his way to Marine One.
He saluted the troops. To our cameras he waved.
We reporters yelled questions, but no answers he gave.
As the chopper blades whirred, his hand rose to his ear,
To suggest he was no longer able to hear.
And just as the coast was about to be clear
Did a low-flying gaggle of geese then appear,
Hovering over the White House air space,
Did one drop a large egg on the President’s face!”

“This is an outrage! What a disgrace!”
The pundits chime in, catching up to the chase.
They spin around words, work to make their best case
Of what listeners should think of egg splattered on face.

The most vocal critics are quick to exalt
This latest bird flap is the President’s fault!
“Never mind all this talk of fine feathered assault,”
they intone from their glass-circled broadcasting vaults.
“Here is a leader so roundly despised
That even the birds have begun to get wise.
My friends, they have seen through his tricks and his lies!
Might this be a sign of his coming demise?”

Back at the White House, doom and gloom loom
Advisors pour into a hushed Cabinet Room.
The thought of it makes them all queasy and sick.
How has this scandal gain traction so quick?
One thing’s for sure, if they don’t find their kick,
If they don’t react fast, then this scandal might stick!

The President sighs, “Can’t we make a firm case
That nothing is wrong with egg dropped on face!”
“But sir,” his most trusted advisors forewarn,
“Doing that could turn into one big, ugly thorn.
Your staff must both kindly and humbly advise
You deny any egg hit your head from the sky.”

Word soon filters out to a hungry press corps
That there’ll soon be a statement about the downpour.
“The President wishes to settle this score
And put everything back as it once was before.”

“What might he say?” the news anchors wonder.
“Can he survive this latest of blunders?”
Long columns of experts condemn and extol
While long rows of reporters do on-the-street polls.

“Back to the White House,” the newscasts proclaim,
“For our next scheduled act of Cracked Egg in Beltway!
Will the President choose to cut straight to the chase?
And explain to the world about egg dropped on face?”

“Thank you, for coming,” a spokesman begins.
“I’ll make a brief statement, then answers questions.
Though rumors are rampant all over the place,
The truth is no egg struck the President’s face.”
He talks over gasps and a chorus of sighs,
Over fast popping flashbulbs and wry looking eyes.
“Our opponents can cry till they’re blue in the face
But the truth is, we speak from a technical base.
Marine One’s airfoil had to be replaced.
Some grease off of that struck the President’s face.”

“Oh c’mon, up there!” a journalist bellows.
“That goo on his mug was a bright colored yellow!”

“We will not respond to such baseless attacks
From hacks who refuse to look square at the facts.
This is not an occurrence of low-flying geese.
The true culprit here is: Grease, grease, grease!”

“Grease, grease, grease!” roar the President’s allies.
On blogs and talk shows come their furious outcries.
“The gall of some people to lie and debase
And mislead good Americans about egg on face!”

“Outrageous!” the President’s critics respond.
“They caught it on tape. Egg on face! We’ve been conned!
We don’t give a rip what his smooth talkers say.
There’s egg on his face and somebody must pay!”

“The White House must pay!” his opponents proclaim.

The newspapers rush to clear acres of space
For their front page reports of glop splattered on face.
“But what of my story on government waste?”
A reporter bemoans when her story’s replaced.
“And what about mine on employment and race?”
Their editors brace, “You both make a fair case.
It was never our goal to usurp or displace.
But this is our business! To stick with the chase!
And the big news today is egg splattered on face.”

Hours stretch into days, it’s all over the news.
The White House is spun on its heels and confused.
“Should someone resign? Take the heat? Just in case?
It really was egg on the President’s face?”
A sea of advisors flock to his abode
As the White House digs into its “hunker down” mode.
The press call for answers, their questions hell-bent,
Though their efforts are met with a flat, “No comment.”

News stalls like a clunker. Days swell into weeks.
Until somebody in the know finally speaks.
“A leak! A leak! An unconfirmed leak!
That maybe some egg grazed the President’s cheek!”

“Can you believe it? These crooks and these sneaks!”
His critics declare, sharpening up their critiques.
“Article Two has been forcibly breached!
Let’s draw up the papers! It’s time to impeach!”

“Graze! Graze! Graze!” his followers say.
“Impeach! Impeach!” his challengers bray.
On twenty-four hour news cycles each day
Until twenty four times, everyone gets their say.

In circles it goes for ages and ever.
Through day and through night
And through all kinds of weather.
Up north and down south
Across east and past west,
It orbits the globe with an infinite zest.
Critics campaigning, the President hiding,
The nation itself furiously dividing.
Until one surprise morning, a new egg goes plop
And as fast as it started, the whole thing gets dropped.

By Dann Halem

“Oh, TiVo, you never let me down,” she wrote, or something to that effect. Which got me to thinking: What if people were more like TiVo? Wouldn’t it be Eden?

Consider some examples:

1. When you ask TiVo to do something, it motherfucking does it. Think of every hostile encounter that might be avoided if people acted the same? Imagine a world where everyone did everything-the-fuck-they-said-they-were-gonna-do? I know, I’m sounding like John Lennon.

2. TiVo is thoughtful. Not only will it record your shows, but it will record other shows that might be of interest to you. You might remember an episode of the King of Queens where Doug’s TiVo starts taping programs with predominantly gay themes? (“My TiVO Thinks I’m Gay!) Doug is so chagrined that he starts taping only war documentaries. Soon, he’s reclassified as a Nazi. ~sigh~ I wish I had friends who spent afternoons pondering whether to send me Hermann Göring videos or season four of The L World.

3. With TiVo, the picture is high definition. Crazy how we make televisions now where the line count is as sharp as the view out our window. When was the last time your life felt so clear?

4. Getting TiVo costs $5.99 per month. Hells ya! For less than two beers, I get an honest, dependable, thoughtful companion who is sensitive to my needs and interested in my wants. A best friend, selflessly giving, who asks nothing but for my financial honesty, and strives in its own way to make my life just a tiny bit better.

I’ve just re-read this. Is it any surprise that I’m single?

Want to Share This Story? Use our ShareThis feature below to email “Why Can’t You be More Like TiVo!?,” post a link in your blog, or share it on your Facebook, Stumbleupon, and Myspace pages.