Monday, December 24, 2007

FooDaddy's Gift

Listen Here!

The snow was falling like the tears of hedonistic dwarves mourning their misspent lives as I climbed into my car and drove gingerly to FooDaddy’s house. It was Christmas Eve and the spirit of the holiday was fast taking over my soul. And squeezing it really hard, too.

He wasn’t expecting me, but I knew that FooDaddy understood the true meaning of Christmas, that it meant being with friends, and so I was not concerned about my arrival being taken poorly. In fact, he was always so glad to see me that I was merely waiting for my copy of the house key, so that I could frequently enrich the lives of him and his friends at a moment’s notice.

Not long ago, he had given me clear instructions to always call before arriving. Knowing he was only doing this so that other friends, who were standing nearby, would not feel less important, I really didn’t pay much attention and merely gave him a thumbs-up, so he would understand that I had seen through the subterfuge and divined his true meaning.

I slid sideways into the driveway and parked with many glees in my heart. This was my favorite time of year. The lights, the music, receiving gifts, Santa, snow, receiving was a marvelous potpourri of yummitude. I had even purchased FooDaddy a present and couldn’t wait to hand it over.

Ringing the doorbell, I waited impatiently for the flinging of the door, the jovial “ho-ho-ho,” and the beginning of the holiday festivities. After the third ring, I saw a slight movement in a curtain, the peering of an eye, which seemed to widen at the sight of me. Another thirty seconds crawled by on broken limbs as I stood in the cold. Ha, ha. That FooDaddy was some prankster.

At last, I heard the rattling of chains, locks, and deadbolts (FooDaddy is very security conscious) and the door opened. FooDaddy stood there, an expression of surprise on his face. Apparently, he had thought I would forget my closest friends on Christmas, but that just isn’t me. I stood on the porch, my arms thrust straight out, holding the wrapped package just under his nose. He started backward.

“What’s this?”

“Just a little Christmas cheer!” I said, accidentally bumping his nose with the box. It had been a gentle tap, but the blood began to flow.

As FooDaddy had to excuse himself to staunch the onslaught, I took the liberty of entering the house and removing my coat. Imagine my surprise to find the living room full of people. FooGirl was in attendance and regarded my arrival with something akin to hysteria. She was so glad to see me, that she began pelting me with brownies and screaming something about her party being ruined. That girl sure knows how to party. It seemed I had arrived just in time to give the proceedings a much-needed shot in the arm. Here I had just arrived and I was being literally buried in food.

I picked up a couple of the brownies and ate them. They were terrible, but I ate seven more just to show I was truly in the Christmas spirit. And then I ate another for New Year’s.

“Here, open your gift,” I said, seeing that FooDaddy had returned, wads of toilet paper protruding from each nostril.

“I’d rather wait,” he said. “For Christmas morning. I love the suspense.”

FooGirl nudged him and whispered something in his ear. He glanced up, a look of hope glimmering in his eyes.

“You think so?” he asked, smiling widely at FooGirl. “If I open it, maybe he’ll...right then.”

He set to work tearing open the box with a gusto quite impressive for a fellow of his temperament. Obviously, FooGirl had known that indulging me in my foolish desire to witness the opening of the gift would encourage me to stay much longer that I had originally planned. Ah, to feel wanted on Christmas. It is the greatest gift anyone could...

FooDaddy let out a shriek and the box, buoyed by the dozen flapping ends of mangled wrapping paper, floated gently to the floor. It landed on its side, however, and the contents fell out onto the carpet. FooGirl bent and picked up the gift.

“Don’t touch it!” FooDaddy loudly warbled, trying to swat the box out of FooGirl’s hands. She looked at him quizzically.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s just a model car. See, he even brought glue, so you could put it together.”

“Never!” FooDaddy was backing away slowly, his trembling hands held palms out in front of him. “I will never assist the Prince of Darkness by constructing that model car. He will have to build his evil kingdom without me!”

I was completely nonplussed by this sudden turn of events. Apparently, all my religious upbringing had come up short and failed to teach me that Satan’s method of world perversion was not by tempting people to have fun, but rather by enticing them into the lurid world of model cars. But how I was to know that the Devil’s favorite car was the Chevy Cavalier?


Anonymous said...

This is hilarious. I love how annoying and clueless you are, stupid.

Jack W. Regan said...

Yes. If only that was merely a brilliant element of fiction, I think we'd all be happier, eh, Wifey?

Oh, and FooDaddy will probably be the only one to "get" the punchline of the story. There is a point to it, but I realize it will seem extremely vague or anti-climactic to most of you.

Anonymous said...

Oh don't worry about that Craig, my parents used to drive a Chevy. It's amazing we are still alive

Jacob Nordby said...

I will have to debate you a bit over the Devil's favorite "whip", good man, Stupid.

I have personally driven a couple of Old Scratch's favorites (after he did to them).

In fact, my very first car, a 1976 Volvo station wagon (yes, I know...chick magnet), was an instrument of evil if ever there was such.

This blog doesn't have room for me to tell all the stories of that car, but...perhaps soon I shall imbibe a bit too much and slosh a few of those tales out for your amusement.


Anonymous said...

I was wondering if the cavalier is the devil's car because it is a Chevy or just because it is a cavalier? I would be very sad if it was just because it happens to be made by Chevy. I thought this was very funny and I am sure I would throw brownies at you if the situation called for it.

Jack W. Regan said...

Never fear, Curvy Cosmo Tee-hee Girl. I was merely cashing in on a long-running joke that Paul and some of his friends had about the crappiness of Cavaliers. I personally have nothing against Chevy. In fact, I own one. Well, Beth does. A silver Cobalt, just like you have, in fact, and we're very happy with it.

Does that explanation qualify me for a brownie?

Jacob Nordby said...


I demand to see a picture of her CurvyCosmo-ness--as scantily clad as possible (my guess is that, with your well documented terror of the opposite sex, we'll see about as much skin as is showing at an Amish bathing suit convention).

Anyways, I repeat my demand. Loudly.


Anonymous said...

In lieu of an appearance by FooDaddy himself, perhaps I can explain. This may not make the story's punchline any funnier, but it will offer the readers a peek into the black hole at the center of the FooDaddy Galaxy. You see, when FD was shopping for his first real car (the CrimeWagon, at 135k miles, had become more fictional than real, what with its Leacockian ability to ride madly off in all directions), he greatly feared being trapped inside a Chevy Cavalier. He'd see them lurching about town, gamely limping up the Michigan Street hill, wobbling off onto rumble strips to die, making stupid left turns, things like that. When you don't have money in this frog-eat-frog world, this chrome and gunmetal madhouse we call America, you fear being swallowed by industrial insults like the Cav. It's where they put you when they want you to stay quiet and nonrevolutionary as your soul slowly dies. So FD grew to hate the Cav because he thought it was Fate, farting rotten-egg exhaust smell in his face. Fortunately he discovered the Ford World Car project code named CDW27, escaped his destined immurement in metal mediocrity, and drove off happily ever after. Perhaps now you can see that Stu's present was truly truly hairy scary.

Paul FooDaddy Brand said...

I liked this one. You built up all this suspense and topped it off with an inside joke. Good stuff! Cavaliers are evil. Tell your friends. Spred the wurd.

I've been farted on by Fate before. It was very uncalled for.