As far as I remember, it’s genuine Runyonese and if you translate it as “guy” you won’t be too far out. 
Huh. Five pages of googles and no references to that usage.
p.s. Thanks for renewing this - it’s a seasonal favorite of mine!
Let me get this right…
The main character is obsessed with death. He doesn’t get the whole holiday thing. He thinks everyone is out to get him. His girlfriend dumped him because he was too into himself. He makes fun of his family.
Wait a minute, I think Woody Allen actually wrote A Christmas Carol.
Mine too. Many great things here, and hope to see many more!
Glad you got around to that p.s.
As for the other, if you find anything on Google other than clarified butter then good luck to you; I don’t have On Broadway to hand right now and can’t always reliably cite from books I’ve read some time in the last fifteen years. 
Someone else’s turn now.
Sorry to get y’all’s hopes up, but I’m just here to compliment Malacandra, as her work was good even if you, like me, didn’t know the author she reference.
His, he. Been over this quite a few times. 
A Kajuralia Song
by John Norman
“Depart,” I told the dancing girl before me.
Goreans do not celebrate Christmas. True, Gor is seasonal, as is Earth; it has an axial tilt, as Earth does; its axial tilt is comparable to that of Earth; this is easily determined by any mariner; a mariner can determine his latitude by taking a sight of the Pole Star; Gor has a Pole Star, as must any planet that rotates; its Pole Star is not Polaris, as is Earth’s; the Goreans use instead that bright star which most closely aligns with its rotational axis; I do not know the name of Gor’s Pole Star according to Earth’s astronomers; I know the Big Dipper, as most English-speaking Earthmen do; consequently I can locate Earth’s Pole Star easily; it is not, however, Gor’s Pole Star although, to be sure, it lies within broadly the same region of the sky; mariners also shoot the noonday Sun to find their latitude; the angle of the noonday Sun, however, varies with the seasons, as the angle of the Pole Star does not; the correction for the time of year is written in nautical almanacs, prepared by the Caste of Scribes according to calculations performed by the Caste of Builders; from consultation of such tables it is easy to determine Gor’s axial tilt; it is comparable to that of Earth; consequently Gor has seasons muchly as Earth does; it has equinoxes and solstices; some of these are celebrated in different Gorean cultures; for instance, the Wagon Peoples mark the beginning and end of the Season of Snows; the men of Torvaldsland, on the other hand, do not mark any particular winter festival; the Thing is held in late autumn by the calendar although, to be sure, given the climate of Torvaldsland this is already wintry by the standards of more southerly climes.
I told the dancing girl before me to depart.
Christianity is unknown on Gor and would, I surmise, be unlikely to meet with much approval from either the general population or the Caste of Initiates. The Initiates jealously guard their privileges and permit no competition where they are able to have any say in the matter; in the more northerly latitudes they are in competition with the paganism practiced by the Torvaldslanders; they will torture to death any worshippers of Odin and Thor who fall into their power; on the other hand, men of Torvald will cheerfully slay Initiates if they can; I was once present at the sack of the temple of Kassau; the Initiates believed that the Jarl Ivar Forkbeard was dead and had made a deathbed conversion, wishing to be anointed for burial; they were mistaken on both counts; there were many dead bodies at the funeral of Ivar Forkbeard; the Forkbeard’s corpse, however, was not among them. Also the Wagon Peoples have their haruspices, the Red Hunters of the polar wastes are animists, among them my good friend Imnak; so too, although of a somewhat different sort, are the Red Savages of the Barrens; Red Hunters and Red Savages are not, of course, their own names for themselves; in both cases, in their own languages, the word for themselves is simply “The People”. But Goreans would not be likely to have much time for Christianity; they are not muchly given to such sentiments as “Peace on earth and goodwill towards men” although, to be sure, Goreans are typically very good-willed towards those with whom they have no quarrel, especially to those with whom they share a Home Stone; they are not, however, a peaceful people; they would have little cause to care for a philosophically-mandated peace; when Goreans are peaceful it is through mutual respect for strength; Gorean peace is sometimes fragile precisely because the strength of individuals, or of political entities, is not a fixed quantity. I offer no judgment in this matter; I merely report it.
I regarded the dancing girl before me. “Depart,” I said.
Christmas, then, is unknown on Gor either as a seasonal observation or a religious festival. Of all the customs of the Earthly Christmas, the medieval custom of the Lord of Misrule comes closest to having a Gorean parallel, and also the Roman Saturnalia. It is hardly a coincidence that the festival known as Kajuralia is so named. This feast, though, is not observed in the winter. In Ar it falls in high summer, just before the Love Feast; in most other cities it falls just before the Twelfth Passage Hand, at the close of the year; Gor’s calendar marks the New Year in Spring; once, so did the European calendar; it is only in a recent century that this changed; otherwise it would not be logical for December, “Tenth-month” to be the twelfth month of the year; it was not always so; it was originally the tenth month; similarly for the months back to September, and in earlier times Sextilis and Quintilis. In Port Kar the festival of Kajuralia is not observed. During the Festival, slaves are given much latitude; they may disport themselves; they may lie with other slaves whom they desire; they may play practical jokes; they may even play such upon free persons although, to be sure, it would not be well to push the privilege too far; they will, after all, be once again under slave discipline after the Twentieth Ahn; even male slaves, if not given liberty for the day, may be allowed richer food than normally, and strong drink, even Paga. In Port Kar, however, Kajuralia is not observed at all.
The girl paused in her dancing before me. I told her to depart.
In my hall in Port Kar I, Bosk of Port Kar, sat alone, for my time was upon me. Years ago I was wounded with a blade poisoned by the odious Sullius Maximus. He did this to win favour with Chenbar of Tyrus, the Sea Sleen. It did not, however, win him favour, though it reduced me to paralysis; for months I could not rise from my seat; I was a cripple. But Chenbar, though my enemy, was enraged by the actions of Sullius Maximus. He would have cheerfully met me blade to blade had matters so fallen out, but he despised poison as the weapon of a coward, a weakling or a woman, and he ordered Sullius Maximus to prepare an antidote; he gave orders that within a few days Sullius Maximus should be wounded with his own poisoned weapon; if Sullius Maximus wished ever again to move under his own power then he would need to prepare his antidote speedily; this he did, and the antidote was tested on him; it was later brought to me by Sarus of Tyros himself, who had struck me the poisoned wound; Sarus, too, felt dishonoured and would have presented himself to me for execution had Chenbar not compelled Sullius Maximus to prepare the antidote; when the antidote was administered I suffered many hours of delirium but, too, I regained the use of my limbs; I had been in remission when Sarus arrived; I knew, though, that the remission would not last; the antidote did as it was meant to, but from time to time, at long intervals, the delirium still returns.
As I did not wish to suffer delirium before witnesses, I bid the dancing girl depart.
On this occasion the delirium afflicted me in the Second Hand of the month of Se’Var, the Second Resting. This is the month of the winter solstice although not, as I have said, the Gorean New Year. I sat in my high chair, alone in my hall, and waited for the tremors and the hallucinations to begin.
They were not long in coming.
I saw Misk the Priest-King in my hall. I knew he could not be truly present, for he would never enter a Gorean city and, too, my hall would not be accessible to a Priest-King; Priest-Kings are much larger than men; but to those who know not what a Priest-King truly is, I shall say nothing for now. I have written much of Priest-Kings elsewhere. His great compound eyes, one of them slashed in his battle with Sarm, regarded me steadily although, to be sure, Priest-Kings rely more on other senses than sight.
“Tarl Cabot,” said his translator, “listen to me…”
(continues for ~500 pages)
A CHRISTMAS CAROL MYSTERY by William Hanna and Joseph Barbera
EBENEZER DASTARDLY—Skinny, bent over wit his own evil. Mustache he can twirl.
CHUTNEY----his snickering dog
MARLEY—basically a glowing mummy with chains and boxes
Cut to end:
EBENEZER: I would’ve gotten away with it too if it weren’t for those nosy kids and their dog!
CHUTNEY: snicker
Starship Scroogers by Robert Heinlein:
“Humbugs, Mr. Cratchit! Millions of 'em!”
The Twilight Scone by Rod Serling:
" ‘And to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, Scrooge became a second father.’ That’s right. Tiny Tim did not die…EVER. The sort of detail a busy author might unfortunately overlook, while eating a Twilight Scone."
Jacob Marley Overdrive by William Gibson:
“God bless us every one one zero one zero zero…”
I wrote a Deadwood Christmas poem, and was egotistical enough to think it deserved its own thread.
Ah, I should try this one.
“Witness if you will. One Ebenezer Scrooge, parsimonious financier. His books balance, but his feelings don’t. Tonight, Scrooge will be visited by a few spectral guests. They’ll force him, against his will, to look at his attitude towards others. Our story takes place in Victorian London, but it could occur anywhere at any time–in the Twilight Zone.”
I should like Armando Iannucci to rewrite the story with Malcolm Tucker in the role of Ebenezer Scrooge (except that he wouldn’t go mad and suddenly become happy happy joy joy the way Scrooge does in the story). I think the ‘are there no workhouses?’ speech would be brilliantly rendered.
It would be great, but completely unprintable.
Si
Well, it is true that Malcolm’s print medium is the tea towel:
***Seriously not safe for work xmas greeting from Malcolm Tucker and GQ
***NSFW
If … I missed this one before, then I will add my “well done” now.
Spoons
who is trying to fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run.
It’s that time of year again, folks. Does anybody have any contributions this year?
I’m going to have to do a Snorri Sturluson one but don’t know how good it is.
Here goes:
(In the style of Gylfaginning as translated [here](http:// Gylfaginning))
**The Haunting of Ebenezer, by Snorri Sturluson (translated from the Icelandic). **
Ebenezer Scrooge lived in a town that is called London. It is said that he turned away some men from his door one Yule eve. These men were of a group which went about the town seeking alms for the benefit of the poor. Scrooge was a rich but ungenerous man and had no time for the merrymaking of Yule. He also sent away his sister’s son, declaring that Yule was nothing more than foolishness.
So as he was going to sleep that night an apparition appeared to him of a man with a chain around his waist. Scrooge asked of him his name and the ghost replied that he was his old friend and partner Marley who had died on Yule Eve. “and I wear this chain as a symbol of my lack of generosity and oppression of the poor. Now on this Yule Eve night you will be visited by three spirits of Yüle who will aid you in escaping my fate; the Spirits of Yule Past, Present, and Yet-To Come.”
**THE VIRTUE OF HUMBUG
**
Not by Ayn Rand
“Who is Ebenezer Scrooge?” The bum spoke the words with the indifference of a man who had given up hope long ago. In the distance a church bell rang eleven times, and was the only sound the bum heard, except for an occasional breeze that smelled like a stagnant swamp.
Scrooge sat in the vault of his bank on a frigid Christmas Eve. His long, angular body was relaxed in cat-like comfort. Once again, he counted the gold coins before him, as each coin glistened like a promise of a better tomorrow. He had worked hard for these coins, starting out as an office “gopher,” and working his way up the corporate ladder to Chairman of the Board . . . and then as the sole owner of the bank. He laughed at everything that was wrong with the world, and ran the coins through his long fingers, thinking of all the enjoyment his money is bringing him, how proud he was of his achievement . . . and of the money that was a symbol of man’s freedom. Then he returned the coins to the vault. The angle of his head and his posture implied a salute.
In the next room a figure sat, shivering, his freezing hands struggling to write numbers in his ledger. The numbers were clear and precise against the crisp white paper.
Scrooge’s nephew appeared, and urged his uncle to attend his Christmas party. And two other men entered, imploring Scrooge to contribute to their charity. Scrooge stood up and addressed the three men in a clear and precise voice that contained no emotion. “Damn collectivists! Get out of my shop! I will not share my fortune with moochers, altruists or collectivists, and I will not condone a holiday that lazy men celebrate by not going to work! Bah, Humbug!”
In time, he saw that the shivering figure in the next room was still writing in the ledger. Scrooge got up and walked over to him. “You’re working late. But you know I will not pay you for time I didn’t authorize. That would be theft on your part and stinking altruism on mine.” Slowly, Cratchit looked up from the ledger and said, in a voice without emotion, “Before I leave, could I have my pay for this week?” Scrooge reached into his pocket and found a small gold coin, which he placed in Cratchit’s hand. “You have earned this. And I suppose you’ll want to stay home tomorrow?” “Yes, I want to spend the holiday with my family.” “Very well,” said Scrooge, acknowledging Cratchit’s professional competence. He made a mental note to get the heater fixed.
And both of the men left; Scrooge to his cold, dark penthouse, and Cratchit to do some last-minute holiday shopping.
Scrooge’s apartment was cold and spare, stripped of everything but the essentials . . . just as the man’s life had been reduced to the bare necessities . . . just as his gaunt face was reduced to a few primitive slashes and large implacable blue-green eyes. On the radio, Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto was playing. Scrooge sat quietly, eyes closed, as the soaring melodies of noble struggle and heroism filled his apartment and his soul.
For a while, he stood by the window, looking out at London, the city that was the symbol of his achievements. Scrooge Bank, Scrooge Industries, Scrooge Tower. He thought to himself: Scrooge Life.
Later, he was studying a gold mine blueprint when suddenly his cat “Frank” exhibited extreme fear and attention toward the window. Then a seemingly otherworldly disturbance came to be, which took the form of his former CEO, Jacob Marley, recently deceased. Startled, Scrooge leaped to his feet, knocking a Scrabble set down to the floor. “What in hell . . . ?” he stammered, reminding himself that a rational man does not perceive “ghosts.” “Yes, it is I,” answered Marley to Scrooge’s unspoken question. “I have come to help you avoid my fate. Like you, I was a selfish egoist, and have been condemned to wander the earth in heavy chains.”
Scrooge burst out laughing. “This is preposterous! Marley is dead, and a rational man does not believe in ghosts. This vision must be caused by something I may have eaten or drunk. And besides, selfishness and egoism are virtues.” His thoughts were interrupted by Marley, telling him “You will be visited by a spirit in each of the next three nights.” With that, the spirit disappeared, and Scrooge was left alone with his cat, unable to reconcile this irrational disturbance with all that he knew of reality.
The following day was a blur, Scrooge’s mind anticipating the possibility of an evening visitor. He hurried home and shortly began to perceive a figure in the semi-darkness. The childlike figure explained that it was the Ghost of Christmas Past. Its face was devoid of pain.
In a flash, Scrooge was transported to a Christmas in his childhood. Invisible to those he watched, he revisited his apprenticeship with a jolly merchant named Fezziwig, whose talents Scrooge surpassed in three weeks. He also saw a tall, statuesque young woman to whom he had become engaged . . . remembering the consummation of their love in a bank vault, surrounded by stacks of gold coins . . . but who left him, because his love of money eclipsed his love for her. He now saw that the woman was indeed beautiful, like a cameo, except for her vacant eyes. Thinking of her, he felt a pang of regret, for what had been and what could never be. But he also felt pride that, even at such an early age, he had learned to respect money as the root of all good, as the medium of exchange for human freedom and achievement. His virtue so outweighed the loss of the young woman, that he quickly forgot her. Then the Ghost of Christmas Past returned him to his bedroom.
The following night, the Ghost of Christmas Present appeared, a giant figure who embodied a total lack of fear. The ghost took Scrooge through London, showing him all the holiday’s preparations. They visited the Cratchit family, including the little “botched” boy, Tiny Tim. Scrooge was pleased to see the happy celebration. “Cratchit is a competent worker, and has much to celebrate." With that, Scrooge entered the house and, unseen, placed another gold piece in Cratchit’s coat pocket . . . not as an act of charity, but in recognition of a man who took pride in his work, and who found joy among his meager possessions.
Then the Christmas party at his nephew’s house, which Scrooge found to be rather disappointing, what should have been a celebration of abundance, but had become a drunken orgy. But he reminded himself that his nephew acquired his money by inheritance, that he was a worthless second-hander. “A celebration,” he thought, “with nothing to celebrate.” Then two starved children, “Ignorance” and “Want” appeared. Scrooge began thinking of how people now regarded “ignorance” as a badge of honor, and how someone’s “want” had become a claim on the wealth he spent his life accumulating.
The following evening, Scrooge was visited by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, with a face devoid of guilt. The spirit showed Scrooge several scenes that followed a man’s death, and how the man and his death affected people. Scrooge was shown how the unnamed man was hated, and his death celebrated. With all his money, the man had neither admirer nor friend. Of course the recently-buried miser turned out to be Scrooge himself. He congratulated himself for successfully living a rational, productive life, free of the irrational altruism of others. But he wished, just for once, to encounter just one person to admire, one person to look up to in this otherwise bleak world.
Now, safely at home, Scrooge stands alone and naked on the roof of his penthouse, his copper-colored hair streaming in the wind, his bare chest as a shield against those who would condemn his life. The world - past, present and future - goes on as it had before. The three ghosts - with faces devoid of pain, fear and guilt - are mere memories, as he continues his quest for more money. He looks out over the City of London - past his beloved smokestacks - and in a moment of reverence, traces in front of the world . . . the sign of the British Pound.
@panache: That is great!
Certainly better than mine… (not fishing for compliments)