Santa Blogs XXX | Newberry

Santa Blogs XXX

Oh, Barrellous Bungler:

I think I’ll just give up. All that fat in your stomach has gone to your head. So you won’t remember me any more than you’ve ever remembered any of my requests for good, up-to-date books, filled with hot sex between undead characters, the kind other kids get. But thanks to you, all I ever get are the second-hand trash inscribed “To Darling Dimples From Her Darling Auntie”. If you’ve never noticed, Santa Blobs, there are no zombies in Green Gables and the Little Colonel never meets any vampires. Do me a favor, Santa: just skip my house this year.

The Daring Undead Reaper

Dear Dar U R:

One must never give up, persimmon cider: in spite of all your assumptions that I have forgotten you, I never have and, reluctant though I am to disappoint you, I never shall. I look forward to your annual letter, Fruitcake Fricassee. I am eager to learn how you’re getting along and, in any case, my dartboard wears out and must be renewed every year.

We simply do not understand each other, but that is no reason to give up trying. As I take it, your life is devoid of new, shiny fictional monsters. (Not to be confused with vampires who twinkle.) You receive only the blessing of OLD books. But there are numerous ways to overcome this problem.

You can, for example, pick through the trash at bookstores or your local library. People there seldom throw away new novels, it’s true, but they do sometimes use dustjackets on bulletins for advertisement, or simply throw the jackets away because the library finds them hard to take care of. Seize a jacket or two from the latest teen fantasy angst series and wrap it around the book you got in your green-striped stocking. Then as you walk around with The Dana Girls and the Fake Newspaper, no one will know you’re NOT reading Heartgloom IV.

Or you could use your imagination, which your use of nicknames shows you possess, and look at the books you have with new eyes. Pick up Little House On the Prairie again, melon macaroon, and think for a moment. These stories are autobiographical: the characters were real people. And guess what? They’re All Dead Now. Ignore the pictures showing them looking robust and healthy, and reread the book as the actions of a lot of long-dead people in mid-America. As a bonus, some of the experts who decide what is fit for children to read have decided against these books, which ought to lend them a special flavor that will appeal to you.

Exercise your pen and your mind, if nothing else will do. How long ago do you suppose that darling auntie gave that book to darling dimples? Surely by now at least one of those two will have expired of sheer cuteness. Write a story about how that person is searching for a longlost book, and what she will do to the unlucky person who possesses it. Write it on one of these cold, windy midnights as a frigid howl comes through the clouds, and see if it doesn’t make your blood run cold (if it was warm to start with; I’m starting to scare myself. Are YOU really alive, Dar?)

As for the sex in ghost stories…well, I was going to tell you where to find the erotic parts of Dickens’s Christmas Carol, but I’m running out of space. You’ll have to look that up for yourself, sauerkraut snap, whilst I tell the people out there in Blogland to remember not to drop books on while the Newberry is closed. Like much of the staff, this blog will be off duty for a while, and will bring more news of books and records and such in 2019. Watch out for young women swinging secondhand books by the dark of night, don’t get snowed in anywhere boring, and read on. L’chaim!

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