12 September 2006

Merry Gregmas!

Oyez, oyez, oyez!

Faithful rise, be counted, and be of good cheer!

'Tis Gregmas, the Greggiest day of all Septembertide!

This would be totally appropriate attire for any Gregmas celebration.

Dear Multitude:

Even though Dear Gregory has been published since the dawn of the Jet Age, precious few Touchers of the Hem, Adherents to the Peanut Butter Diet, or Readers of This Blog realize that September 13th is the Feast of Gregmas. To wit, it is Greg's birthday, just as Christmas is the birthday of my friend Chris T, or Criticalmass is the birthday of J. Robert Oppenheimer. (J. Robert Oppenheimer, father of the atomic bomb, or in his words, "Shiva", once gave his teacher a poisoned apple. I shit you not, and neither does last week's New Yorker. Look it up. -Ed.)

I assume that you who are in the majority are now confounded and befuddled. On one hand, you have a whole new square on the calendar to devote to revelry - such a boon! Ut hoy! you cry, and reach for the hookah. But in a trice you realize that you spend every other weeknight practicing the hookah, and this holiday begs for both uniqueness and propriety. What to do?

Fuddle no longer. Below I have compiled a short list of Gregmas facts, customs and traditions. Most of the objects required for celebration (...and worship, if you're so inclined... -Ed.) can be found in the average home (...the exception being the tuba. -Ed.) Enjoy, revel, and Merry Gregmas!

Tradition The First: Immediately upon arising on the morning of September 13th, make a very strong pot of coffee (it should absorb 98% of the available light), fashion a sandwich from peanut butter, bananas and mayonnaise on Roman Meal bread, and grumble while eating your solitary breakfast over the kitchen sink.

Tradition The Second: Six to eight times during the day, seize your tuba with a great deal of ardor and play the piccolo part from "Stars and Stripes Forever".

Tradition The Third: Suffer from the ill-conceived notion that drinking an entire 8-pack of Little Kings Cream Ale won't get you drunk because "the bottles are so small". Re-think your original hypothesis later when you find yourself in an unrecognizable quarter of the Detroit megalopolis (specifically Hamtramck), surrounded by surly Poles demanding to know there whereabouts of their pierogis and their daughters.

My brother Gregory Ives was born on September 13th, 1671. Try as they might, the folks went quite a stretch with no kids - that is until 1962 when I was born. That's why I was named after the patron saint of lost causes. But that's beside the point. The amazing fact about Greg is that although he is three hundred and thirty five years old, rare pharmeceuticals with uncanny moisturizing properties have preserved his ancient flesh. He doesn't look a day over 53.

Greg subsists entirely on peanut butter. "If it's good enough for the koala bear, it's good enough for me!" he has been known to shout.

Do not be misled by his sunken chest and chalky legs. He often crushes Volkswagens with his bare hands.

His favorite movie: Fitzcarraldo. Or is it Nosferatu? Can't remember. Maybe it's Nosfitzcarratu. Anyway, he has a huge poster from Aguirre: The Wrath of God which he can scarcely tear his gaze away from, and he often tries to emulate Klaus Kinski's evil leer, even going so far as to don a tin conquistador helmet at times to heighten the effect.

On Gregmas Day, it is customary to write The Gregory a letter, which he will respond to with silence by the bucketload. So sayeth the lore of Gregmas. Believe me, I've been writing to him for years, and I have yet to see one blot of ink on a shred of paper in reply to a single one of my epistles. On the other hand, he does call "all the gol-damn time" as they say in the red states. Anyhoo, if you like, you can write to him by posting a comment to this blog. (Clog. -Ed.)

It is also customary on Gregmas Day to spend a great deal of time in the bathtub. (That is after the sandwich and the tuba thing. You don't want to do either one of those in the bath. -Ed.) This is to re-enact the Miracle of Gregmas. After six to eight hours in the tub (something Greg does each and every day), your skin shall be verily furrowed with wrinkles from stem to stern, much as The Gregory's skin was once. Then one fateful day, he combined lanolin with turpentine and methyl-ethyl-ketone (MEK) and created the Burnishing Glaze of Brass Instruments and Eternal Youth. And lo, his smooth and youthful hide didst shine like the horn section of the Burbank Police Boy's Band during the Bataan Death March, and he aged no more. You can accomplish the same effect by rubbing yourself down with Mop-N-Glo. Give 'er a whirl. It's a holiday, after all.

And finally, it is customary to purchase several if not hundreds of items from The GregMart for your self, friends and family. Because hey, why give Jesus all your money?


Sgt. Rock said...

Why give Jesus any of your money?
If you're going to give money to a dead guy; give him somebody elses money. Give him Rev. Ikes money or Jerry Falwells.
Just put it in an envelope and send it to Jesus c/o Sgt. Rock, Buttfuck, Missouri.
I promise he'll get it. Really.

And merry Gregmas to you all
( I've called him half a dozen times in the last two weeks and today I didn't; and now it's tommorrow already in Buttfuck)

Oh yeah; saw a really inspirational film last night about the John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester.
(That must be one of the siblings you neglected to notice between you and Greg) The film was " The Libertine". Not your average cup of "Chocolat". And no, it really is not about something smarmy like tits and ass. It's actually about religion. Really.
As they say in Gregland, "Religion is as religion does", or; "Try not to get too much on ya."

Thaddeus Gunn said...

You and I, Sgt. Rock, are living parallel lives. I too watched "The Libertine" the other night. My only question is this: what the hell was up with dude's nose? I mean, I know he was all syphillitic and stuff, but what's up with the nose specifically? Anyway, one thing I can say for the Second Early of Rochester: that guy sure knew how to celebrate Gregmas!

Kim said...

A Merry Gregmas to all!

Say, would it be heresy to add a few cacao nibs to said peanut butter and banana sandwich? Cause DUDE, that could be one tasty treat!

Sgt. Rock said...

All I can tell you is that I've read a number of references to deterioration of the bridge of the nose (and probably other sinus deterioration)caused by end stage syphilis (which can occur ten to fifty years after the initial infection; although in Lord Rochesters time progression was quite a bit more rapid).
However,I have not been able to locate any specific refferences after a brief google search .
The terminal stage can manifest as meningeal lesions, which cause dementia and death. Since nervous tissue is involved that might also explain the blindness (R.

Our Grandfather Harry Roberts uncle Bob (Grandpas namesake) died of the pox after returning from service to the Queen in India.
I would assume that it was not that sort of service that he provided her, but some other.

Gregory - yeah, that Gregory said...

Regarding "Tradition The Third" - one may also find themselves in an uncharted quadrant of the Miami River Valley, face down in the cool, healing waters of the Little Miami River, beseeching a merciful God to snatch out the brain that has become as a pack of rabid vermin intent on gnawing their way out of your foolish skull.

These Kings, though they be Little, are mighty.

Thaddeus Gunn said...

Wee Three Kings disorienting are.

Loretta said...

He's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy!

Nevertheless: Happy Gregmas. Drink plenty of ale from large tankards. But don't stay too long in the tub; you'll turn into a big, white prune and then you'll scare dogs and small children on the street.

JWM from Creston said...

We are actually seriously considering this at our house, since we DO have a tuba. (no kidding)
Darn, I was disappointed you didn't have a link to the Burbank Police Boy's Band. Wanted to see those shiny brass horns.