Johnny Marks, author of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” is the subject of my inaugural BBQ Pit thread. Oh, how I pit thee, Mr. Marks.
Here’s the deal, folks. It started about a month ago, when my 4-year old son and I were watching some Christmas special on TV. Hell, I don’t remember exactly what it was – probably some Rankin/Bass “Rudolph and Frosty’s Lost New Year’s Clusterfuck Baby in July” or some crap like that. All was fine until Santa and his freakin’ reindeer appeared on the screen.
“Where’s Rudolph?” my son asked.
Good question. Where was Rudolph? It then hit me that Rudolph’s appearance is highly hit-or-miss. I guess he’s his own entity, the Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods of Christmas fictional characters. You get the rights to Rudolph, you can show the little bastard with his Teddy Kennedy nose all you want. No rights? Tough shit, pal – stick with the eight lesser-known reindeer and hope Santa doesn’t collide with a 747 in the murky December skies.
I don’t know how I replied, but my goal was to change the subject and return to reading my latest issue of Playboy in peace.
But there would be no peace on this day. Nor throughout the remaining month of November and right up until now – Christmas Eve.
I don’t know how many times I’ve heard “Where’s Rudolph? That’s not fair!” in the past month. Frankly, my list of excuses has grown thin, and my hatred for Rudolph’s author, Johnny Marks, has conversely ballooned.
“Where’s Rudolph?”
“He quit. Benefits sucked.”
“Where’s Rudolph?”
“Well, it is hunting season…”
“Where’s Rudolph?”
[evil grin]“Bwa ha ha ha ha ha ha!”[/]
“Where’s Rudolph?”
“He’s now a wholly-owned subsidiary of Microsoft.”
“Where’s Rudolph?”
“Dead! Dead, I tells ya!”
I don’t know if I can make it through another Christmas with this relentless question. Perhaps a 5-year old will understand the politics, palm-greasing, and back-slapping that must be going on to keep Rudolph from becoming a permanent member of Santa’s elite team of reindeer, but most likely not. All I know is that, this year, I spit upon Johnny Marks and his bastard creation that has driven me to bust open the bottle of Crown Royal I previously had been saving for my New Year’s Eve party. I’m strung out, my kid’s as confused as a blind guy in an orgy, and I have no perfect answer.
Johnny Marks. Pfftht. Up yours, pal.
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