Hola amigos. What’s goin’ on? I know it’s been a long time since I last rapped at ya, but I’ve had some problems. First and foremost, I had to get a new car after the pistons fused in my old one. Piece of crap! Fortunately, though, I was able to get around $150 in parts for it. Add to that the $175 I had saved up for my dream Mustang, and I was able to spend a whole $325 on a new car.
Now, if I’d had a working set of wheels, I would have been able to grab that Mustang I had my eye on for a while now. That ’Stang would have needed another $500-$1,000 in work done on it, so I wouldn’t have been able to take her around, and I must have a functional chariot in which to cruise. Fortunately, my brother let his old Charger go for a sweet deal (’cause he’s my brother and all), and it hardly needed any fixing, except for new windshield wipers, inside door handles and all-new belts.
If that hassle weren’t enough, hombres, pile onto that this new job I got. As of last week, I’m assembling satellite dishes full-time. I know what you’re thinking: “Free cable!” But it just ain’t that way. The life of Jim Anchower isn’t always as glamorous as it seems. Instead of getting free cable, I mostly just stand around for eight hours a day using this heavy-duty epoxy to glue these satellite pieces together. I mean, they got a fan and all, but those fumes just make you crazy!
I swear, I was mindin’ my own business one day, and I saw David Crosby step out of the satellite dish and sing me a song, only it was in Portuguese or some other fucked-up language. I said “Speak English, ya fat-assed has-been!” and he disappeared. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It’s no secret that I enjoy the weed and a cocktail or two on occasion, but I just ain’t into this freaked-out shit.
Anyway, the main reason I’m writing is because I stopped by the ol’ newspaper office to see if they were going to pay me for my last column, since it was so late and all. I was getting ready to go to the mat for my 10 bucks, really scuffle for it, but it turns out that I didn’t have to. My editor walks out the door, and he’s in a real good mood for some strange reason. I get all leery, because when I see that look in a boss’ eyes, it usually means that they’re about to can my ass.
He calls me over, and I sort of move toward him, all the while thinking of some good last words for when I walk out of there after getting fired. He says to me, “Jim, my lad, it’s the holiday season.” I just sort of nod, thinking he’s gonna say that he doesn’t want to toss me out on my ass right before Christmas, but he just has no choice and all that. But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches out and kisses me on the cheek. I don’t know if this is like some kinda Godfather thing, but I’m getting real creeped out. Then he points up, and I see we’re standing under this thing of mistletoe.
Then he says, “Anchower, I just love the holidays!” I just sort of go along with it, wishing he’d get to the point, ’cause he’s really creeping me out. Finally, he tells me how he likes it when his writers do holiday-themed columns around this time of year. I tell him I could do that, no problem. He says, “Good, because if you don’t, you’re fired!” No arguing with that. Just as I’m walking out the door, he pokes his head out and says,”Make sure to make a joke about fruitcake! People love fruitcake jokes!” I’ll fruitcake him, that old bat.
Anyway, I don’t really know what to write about that fits into this Christmas theme, since talking about all that holiday shit seems kind of weak. I mean, this column is about cruising, not about peace-on-earth-goodwill-to-men crap! Don’t get me wrong, I like all that Christmas stuff, and I even like getting toked up and watching that movie about the guy who’s in trouble and all his friends help him after an angel comes down and kills him, or something like that. But mushy holiday wishes just ain’t what Jim Anchower is about.
So, I guess since just about anything else would be even more lame, I’ll let you know what I want for Christmas:
First of all, I want to get that Mustang, but I know that ain’t gonna happen. I mean, who would give it to me? Ron? He still hasn’t paid me back that 10 bucks I lent him! I also want a pound of prime weed for perfect tokin’. And one of those new Nintendo 64s, so I have something to occupy my time whenever I get that peaceful, easy feeling, if you catch my drift. I’d also like a year’s supply of ice-cold Miller Genuine Draft in my fridge. I’d like the Led Zeppelin box set. Actually, make that both Zep box sets. I’d like cable. And, just to keep it reasonable, I’d also like some socks and drawers, since I’m running low and all.
I know that’s a lot of stuff, but I gotta say, if I don’t get any of it, I ain’t gonna be broken-hearted. You see, Jim Anchower is a man of modest means, and he doesn’t need much to be happy. (Although that 10 bucks would be nice, Ron.) But a man has to have a dream. If a man don’t have a dream, well, then he doesn’t have anything.
Anyway, if you’re a crazy millionaire or something, and you want to make Jim Anchower happy, feel free to send some or all of those gifts to this paper to my attention. But if you don’t want to, don’t worry about it.
God bless us, everyone. Except Ron, ’cause he’s a selfish son of a bitch.
Jim Anchower joined The Onion’s editorial writing staff in 1993 after several distinguished years on The Come Back Inn dishwashing staff. He comments on community-affairs, automotive, and employment issues. He attended LaFollette High School in Madison, WI.
