The Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come!
"The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.
It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.
He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.
'I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?' said Scrooge.
The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.
'You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,' Scrooge pursued. 'Is that so, Spirit?'
The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.
Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit pauses a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover.
But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.
'Ghost of the Future!' he exclaimed, 'I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?'
It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.
'Lead on!' said Scrooge. 'Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!'" - Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
(I could see who it was - it was Billy Crystal dressed up (see picture) at the 1998 Oscars! I so wasn't scared!)
Since the Spirit doesn't talk - I'll quickly relate what transpired...
So I could hear all of this canned laughter coming from an auditorium. Someone was giving a speech or something - and he was reading from my writings - yes - even this blog!
"And here," the speaker dryly reads, "he states that he doesn't believe in Global Warming and he goes on to poke fun at The NCCB!" (Roars of canned laughter.)
Someone from the press shouts out, "He claimed he knew who would be the next Archbishop!"
(More Canned laughter - in stereo this time.)
"Then this guy, with his tattered old Polo shirts and corduroys, claims to be the arbiter of taste and fashion!" (Rolls of canned laughter in surround sound.) The speaker then presents a photo of an old, fat, balding man with a W.C. Fields nose, up on the screen behind him - the studio looked like Oprah's set at Harpo - it was really, really nice.
"Here he is ladies and gentleman, Mr Terry Nelson!" (Real laughter this time!)
OMIGOSH! It was me! They were making fun of my writing and blogging and, and, the way I look and dress.
"How does it feel, Mr. Nelson?" said the phantom - looking straight into my face with that horrid Billy Crystal drag visage! Then he pointed that horrible hand, it wasn't bony, as in the story, it was a chubby, well manicured hand with a huge diamond pinkie ring. (Billy is getting to look kinda Jewish. I hate pinkie rings!)
There we were, in front of a gallery, gone out of business because they had an exhibition of my art. The gallery owner was using my paintings to heat his loft upstairs - burning them in his fireplace - throwing vodka on them to make them explode in delightful multi-colored flares!
"How could I be so stupid as to show these paintings? They are all so derivative, mediocre, and just plain stupid!" The gallery owner told his wife - who looked remarkably like Roseanne Barr - still quite fat even after surgery.
Re-runs of Hollywood Squares was on the TV his wife was watching, while casually munching on nachos, and Jim J. Bullock was doing an impression of me - he even used my name. Was the entire world mocking me? Couldn't I stop it?
The Spectre of death pointed to a morgue wherein doctors were examining a body, which looked a lot like Harrison Ford to me. I heard the one pathologist, who bore an unmistakable resemblance to George Clooney, state emphatically, "OMIGOSH! I guess he wasn't a hypochondriac after all! Look at this kidney damage, and the cancerous stomach - what is this prostate - it looks like a rotten orange! Oh my gosh! These lungs are are like tar pits."
"Look at the heart, it's all whithered like a rotten old shoe, hard as a rock!" Proclaimed another pathologist - he was definitely Dr. Drake Ramore! (Joey from "Friends" for the pop-culture impaired.)
"The brain is as small as a peanut!" Declared the nurse - who so was Nurse Diesel from "High Anxiety". (Sorry - I'm casting this as I write.)
"All righty then!" I said to the Ghost, "I am so out of here."
And the Spectre laid his chubby little hand on my shoulder, the diamond in his pinkie illuminating a headstone in a cemetery. I had to move forward, discovering it was just a resin headstone, patinated to look like stone. (How cheap and tacky is that?)
I collapsed in laughter when I read the inscription, "Terry Nelson - 1978-2007: He was No Damn Good" (That's what my mom and dad always told me, I thought that was sweet.) Beneath was a quote, "See, I told you I was sick!" With one of those dreadful smiley faces.
I looked at Billy Crystal in disbelief, recalling the Dickens story wherein Scrooge uttered these lines:
'Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,' said Scrooge. 'But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!' - A Christmas Carol
And finally I awakened to white noise on my TV, within my darkened chamber, the wind howling outside, the shutters banging. The clock radio suddenly burst forth with Burl Ives', "Holly Jolly Christmas" - I covered my head with the pillow and wished I was dead. This next week, the last before Christmas, is just going to be a bitch if you're in retail! Kching!
Happy Holidays to all! God bless us everyone! Remember, life is just one big sitcom!