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Part Three: Santa’s Night Out — A Tale of Three Deliveries

Had a Few Beers: This is Part Three of a three-part series.  Part One is available here and Part Two is available here )


Part Three

Christmas Morning … the Reckoning

The sleigh was parked peacefully behind the bar. After leaving the Garcia house Santa felt there was again hope.

He was inside the bar, at ease among its torn and worn wallpaper. The barstools wobbled, the TV was out of focus, the bar was uneven and even bartender was indifferent.

It was the only bar open at this hour, so by the process of elimination, it was, well — perfect.

“You need something,” Raoul the bartender asked barely glancing away from the TV.

Santa thought while he lit up another Kool. The memories of the Miller, Johnson and Garcia deliveries flooded back in.

Jesus, this had been the worst Christmas ever and it was supposed to be the easiest.

“Tequila and whatever you have on draft,” Santa answered.

Raoul indifferently served both up and went back to watching the fuzzy TV above the bar.

Santa laughed for a moment as the news station reported his progress back to the North Pole.

After slamming back the tequila, he pulled out his iPhone and checked his Facebook.

My friends are such shit heads, he thought as he scrolled though his newsfeed.

The Easter Bunny’s newest selfie was the first thing that appeared. Santa checked EB’s other updates and it was just selfie, after selfie, after selfie.

Too much cute!

Too much cute!

Why the fuck was this bunny constantly in front of a mirror, taking photos of himself? It was bullshit. You’re a fucking bunny, for the love of all that’s holy. We get it — you think you’re cute. And how fucking easy was his job anyway? Hide a few eggs and a few cheap plastic toys around the house on the night before Easter morning – a robot could do that shit.

Santa scrolled through EB’s photos, it was all the same shit. Cute bunny photo, followed by sexy bunny photo, followed by fake nerdy bunny photo.

The Easter Bunny’s production costs were nonexistent and his continual self-promotion was grinding on Santa’s already frayed nerves. Why the fuck was the bunny constantly making duck lips in each and every photo he took of himself? And was it so hard to ensure the background of those photos was free of dirty clothes, empty food dishes and trash? How could EB’s considerable followers not call these things into question?

“Fuck the bunny,” Santa said out loud.

Raoul turned from the TV and Santa nodded silently toward his empty shot glass. Raoul filled it and went back to the TV without a word.

Santa looked back at his phone and noticed a new red “1” on his newsfeed icon. He clicked it. It was a new update from the Leprechaun. Finally, Santa thought, something from a reputable holiday hero that would have some substance.

Only it didn’t.

The Leprechaun had long since gone political.

This time is was a post railing against the injustices at Guantanamo Bay and advocating that anyone associated with its administration be tried by an international war-crimes tribunal. The post below that argued on behalf of some insurgent group or another in Central Africa. The next post was another call to action after someone tall was sentenced to a shorter stay in jail than a short person convicted of a similar crime. The Leprechaun was having none of that! He was calling for the judge in the case to be assaulted in a very-very violent and anatomically impossible way. The fourth and final post Santa read railed against the NSA, which the Leprachaun alleged spied on everyone.

The last one caused Santa to quietly chuckle. He clicked “Like” hoping this quick, small interaction would feed the half-pint’s paranoid nature. Fuck the Leprechaun and his “pot of gold.” Santa knew the short little shit had blown most of it on hookers and gambling in the early 70s anyway.

Santa was about to shut the damn smart phone off when it happened, the Facebook instant message light lit up.

He clicked open the message and immediately regretted it.

It was from the Tooth Fairy.

Before anyone reading this was even born, the Tooth Fairy and Santa had an affair. Not just a run-of-the-mill affair, but a passionate, tumultuous, turbulent and at-times chaotic affair.

In other words, the bitch was nuts.

delete, delete, delete

delete, delete, delete

“Hey Santa <3< 3 <3 just wanted to say hey!!!!!!! I hope ur not working 2 hard on ur buzy night!!!!!!!! Cupid and I just landed in Bali for a vacation so he can rest up for his busy season in February!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s soooooo pretty here! Thinking of you XOXOXO …”

If eye-rolls made noise, Santa’s would’ve been audible two states away. Cupid’s busy season consisted of ginning up business for the good people at Hallmark and prancing around in a diaper for a few hours. Fact of the matter was, Santa wasn’t all together certain that Cupid wasn’t in fact gay and that his “adorable” wife was nothing more than the type of eye candy required of a person in his line of work.

It pissed off Santa to no end. The Tooth Fairy had so much more potential. There was so much she could’ve done, that they could have done, if she’d said yes when he asked her to marry him those eons ago. But she didn’t and they’d drifted apart. Every millennial or so she’d drop Santa a note and more and more the notes only seemed a cruel and unsuccessful effort on her part to prove what a great and wonderful life she led.

This message was no different. Here she was bouncing around to various vacation destinations without a care in the world. Oh well, it was generally well known in certain circles that she’d long since outsourced her cash-for-teeth program and her “National Tooth Fairy day” initiative (sponsored by who other than Hallmark) was a washed up, dead-on-arrival holiday idea that everyone had long since forgotten about.

Santa drained his second tequila shot and washed it down with his beer. Maybe Mrs. Clause wasn’t so bad after all, he thought. Despite her seemingly incessant naggings, she loved him. She stood by him. She only wanted the best for him.

Something on the TV caught Santa’s eye. He asked Raoul to turn up the volume.

“We have some breaking news from California,” the news anchor said. “It seems the Drug Enforcement Agency gave itself an early Christmas present. In spite of California’s recent legalization of medical marijuana, DEA agents netted the largest marijuana seizure in Sacramento history this morning in a raid at the home of local pot aficionado Juan Garcia. An agency spokesperson credited the raid’s success with the DEA’s cooperation with the NSA …”

The reported continued on as a stunned Santa watched men in black uniforms pour out of the Garcia home. Then, just to confirm it, there was footage of a handcuffed and clearly frightened Garcia being taken out of a police vehicle.

“Jesus Christ, I was just there,” Santa said out loud.

A hooded figure across the bar who’d gone unnoticed up to that point responded.

“The NSA is in everything,” the man said. “Trust me, I know.”

“I don’t get it,” Santa replied. “Why is National Santa Assistance ruining all these people’s lives? I mean sure, I’m down with a little ‘shaming’ for particularly bad boys and girls, but even then I limit it to some coal. None of these families were not bad at all.”

“The National Santa Assistance …” the man questioned.

“Yeah, the NSA,” Santa said as he ordered a beer for him and his new friend and took a seat beside him.

It took a while, but Santa recounted for the man the story of the disastrous deliveries he made throughout the night and how it all seemed to begin with his deal with the NSA.

The man was initially skeptical that Santa was indeed Santa, but after viewing the sleigh, the empty sack of gifts and Rudolf’s disgusting proclivity, he was convinced.

The young man introduced himself to Santa and the name rang a bell in Santa’s head, but he wasn’t sure why. The kid seemed nice enough.

Santa excused himself to take a leak and ran the name through the Naughty or Nice List on his iPhone. Edward Snowden came up on the review list with extra asterisks alongside it. Seems there was evidence he had stolen something. Which in and of itself was of course was very naughty indeed. But it seemed that the something he had stolen was actually something that was potentially safer in Snowden’s hands than in the original owner’s hands.

The case had been marked for executive review by a committee of elf ethics attorneys before the NSA’s miraculous offer to take over Santa’s list.

“Listen Santa,” Edward started when returned to the bar. “NSA doesn’t stand for National Santa Assistance it’s the National Security Agency.”

Then Edward took a few minutes to bring Santa up to speed on the whole NSA situation and with each detail Santa’s jaw dropped a little further.

“So how are you back in the country, why aren’t you still in Russia,” Santa finally asked.

Edward explained that the information he’d “collected” allowed gave him such insight into the NSA’s workings, he was able to slip back into the country from time to time undetected. He knew all the back doors.

“Holy crap,” Santa mumbled to himself drinking in all the information Edward had provided him. Exhausted, he laid his head on the bar for moment to contemplate the wickedness of it all.

“Yeah,” Edward said, “I know, I know. It’s a bitch, but I’m trying to fix it.”

Santa grunted, still stunned from the news. He and Edward talked a few minutes more before Santa excused himself and, after scarfing down a greasy burger from a hole-in-the-wall restaurant next door, he launched the sleigh northward.

Once he was safely airborne, Santa used the phone to call headquarters.

“Executive Santa Division, this is Legolas speaking, how can I help you Santa,” said the elf-formerly-known-as-George.

Jesus, again with the Legolas crap, Santa thought.

“Yeah, ah, Legolas, I need you to help me with something. I need you to access the database that controls who has read/write access to the Naughty or Nice List,” Santa said.

After a brief pause Legolas told Santa he had done such.

“Good Legolas, I need you to remove all NSA access to the list. Can you do that?”

“I can, of course Santa, but that requires that you initiate Santa Operating Procedure number …”

Santa cut him off.

“Look Legolas, would you like an authentic Lord of the Rings Legolas bow and arrow set for being such a good boy?”

This question was followed by several seconds of excited yelling on the other end of the phone. It was obvious to Santa that Legolas would indeed like an authentic Legolas bow and arrow set for Christmas.

“Yes, sir,” he finally said, “I would like that very much, sir.”

“Then yank all NSA access to the Naughty or Nice List. I don’t want there to be any access to the list outside of the traditional, pre-NSA, personnel.

For several moments Santa could hear Legolas furiously clicking on a keyboard.

“It’s done sir, will there be anything else?” Legolas asked.

“Yes, a few things. First I need all NSA incoming calls to the North Pole automatically redirected. Can you do that.”

The elf quickly answered that he could.

“Good Legolas, I want all incoming calls from the NSA directed to the Johnson’s in North Carolina. Also, I need all funds that were transferred into our accounts from the NSA immediately redirected into a general purpose legal defense fund for the Miller and Garcia families. I’ll clear it with the legal team when I get back, but unless I say otherwise, that money can only be used on their legal bills, understood?”

Several more moments passed with furious keyboard clicking by Legolas before the elf confirmed he had done what Santa asked.

“OK, Legolas I need you to take every name associated with the National Santa Assistance organization and put them on the naughty list – with three asterisks by their names.”

This request was met with a gasp on the other end of the line. Legolas was right to gasp, three asterisks next to a name on the naughty list meant one thing, coal for Christmas with extreme prejudice, a fate reserved for only the naughtiest of the naughty.

Several seconds later Legolas reported that the task was complete.

“Anything else, Santa,” the elf asked.

Santa assured him there would not be and wished Legolas a Merry Christmas before hanging up.

Santa checked the onboard computer and only seconds had passed before he noticed the NSA was on to what he had just done, but all of their phone calls had been redirected already to the Johnsons.

“Shoot me in the ass with a BB gun again junior,” Santa laughed.

He checked to make sure his flight path back home was on track before making one more call.

Seconds later a voice came on the line.

“Santa, good to hear from you, we’re tracking you as heading on a course back to headquarters. What can I help you with?”

It was Sara from the warehouse, one of the precious few elves that hadn’t insisted on being called Legolas, and it was a relief for Santa.

“Sara, I’ve got a weird question for you. How many Legolas bow and arrow sets do we have in stock?”

Sara groaned.  “Well Santa we have 637 sets here, none outbound and none inbound.”

“Great, I need every North Pole elf named Legolas to receive one.”

Sara laughed, clicked on her computer and seconds later assured Santa it was done. They would all be under the tree when the elves awoke in a few short hours.

Santa hung up and quickly composed a text to Mrs. Claus not wanting to wake her, but wanting to reassure her if she was still awake and waiting on him

“Be home in less than an hour. Crazy night, you’re not going to believe it when I tell you. No Duck Dynasty for me until the attic is cleaned tomorrow, promise! Love you … see you soon,” it said.

Santa banked the sleigh slightly to the left and down when he felt something tap softly on the heel of his boot. Curious, he fished around under the driver’s seat and found the culprit, an unopened beer had rolled out of its hiding place.

Santa cracked it open, took a good healthy sip and smiled.

It had turned out to be a merry Christmas after all.

Part Two: Santa’s Night Out — A Tale of Three Deliveries

Had a Few Beers:  This is Part Two of a three-part series.  Part One is available here


 Part 2

Santa flies high in the sky Christmas night

“You goddamn sonofabitch,” Mrs. Claus’ screeched in the voicemail. “Why the hell aren’t you home yet? You had three goddamned deliveries! And Legolas just came to the door looking for the Christmas bonuses. I told him that you were a no-good sonofabitch and guess what — it wasn’t news to him.

“You have to work ONE DAY, Kris! One day of the year, for gawd sake! Call me!”

Santa cringed. She can be such a bitch sometimes, he thought gulping his beer. This beer is delicious, he thought as his sleigh flew over the  Appalachians. Does a red nose up your ass feels good, he wondered as the malt and barley soothed his mood.

“Hey honey, two more deliveries to go,” Santa slurred in the return phone call.

“Are you drunk,” Mrs. Claus demanded.

“No,” Santa scoffed. “That’s ridiculous! Who dets grunk when they’ve got presents to deliver. You’re so silly.”

“Who dets grunk?” Mrs. Claus repeated.

“Huh? Are you drunk,” Santa laughed heartily. “Sweetie, are you drunk?”

“You said, ‘dets grunk’ Kris, I’m not stupid,” she hissed.

“What I said was, I love you. Listen, I’m ahh flying over Lake Michigan and we might lose the signal here. Gotta go!” He slammed the phone down.

Following the debacle in Minnesota, Santa was relieved when at last his sleigh finally touched down outside the Jackson home in North Carolina. This time fewer tree tops fell victim to the sleigh and he only sideswiped  a couple cars as he skidded to a halt outside the rural home.

Santa was relieved the night was nearly half over. Just this delivery and one more and he was finished for the year.

He surveyed the damage he left in his wake before shrugging and grabbing the ever-shrinking bag of gifts.

Wiggling his nose, he was about to walk through the front door when a noise caught his attention.  It was faint at first, but grew increasingly louder by the second. Within moments it became almost deafening.

Something swooped past Santa’s head. He swatted at it wondering what kind of insane rabid bat was attacking him. Something else flew past the other side of his head. He spun around trying to locate it.

Suddenly the air was thick with giant bugs carrying what he assumed were bombs. They were everywhere in an instant. He could barely see the sleigh from the doorstep there were so many.

Santa screamed and thrashed about. He batted at them with his sack managing to kill one and send another careening wildly off into the darkness. In an attempt to escape the assault, he rushed inside and slammed the door behind him. But the gnats were also inside. As he ran toward a door across the room, his foot became tangled in the tree lights and he dragged the tannenbaum behind him as he crawled into a closet.

Panting and panicked in the darkness, he was just getting his bearings when he heard that familiar buzz. Sonofabitch! One of the foul creatures was in there too! Assuming his usual fighting posture, Santa peed a little then thrashed about. The beast was formidable. Its flesh wasn’t like a bug’s at all. It had cold metallic limbs and instead of wings, it had rotors. The cramped quarters were to Santa’s advantage, however. No matter what part of his body he moved, he was able to harm the assailant. In the end, the bug was too small to defeat the hefty Claus and he managed to kill it.

Running his hand along the wall, he found a switch. Light poured into the closet.

The bug wasn’t a bug at all, but a miniature helicopter with the word “Amazon” emblazoned on its side. In a claw it clutched, of all things, a Christmas present.

Santa ticked off the list of Christmas enemies he’d defeated in the past: the HAFB-Santa-Amazon-Illustration-2013-12-OGMWIGGrinch, the Abominable snowman and some asshole named Scrooge. None of them were ingenious enough to make one, let alone millions of these things.

Whoever this Amazon was he was a sonofabitch that was for sure.

“I’ll have to ask the NSA about this,” Santa whispered to himself, his tongue thick with hops and cottonmouth.

The buzzing outside the door hadn’t fully abated when he heard a voice from outside the closet.

“Holy shit, Sue Ellen, the gubbermints finally come after us!”

The words were punctuated by what sounded like a volley of gunshots.

“Yee haw,” the man yelled. “Wake up junior, he’s going wanna get some of dis here action …” which was again followed by several gunshots.

Santa put his hand on the closet’s door knob and slowly counted to three. On three he took a deep breath and rushed out into the living room turned war zone. Besides the toppled tree and crushed decorations, the room was now filled with a thin layer of smoke. The floor was littered with Amazon corpses, some of them still struggling to fly despite their bullet-riddled bodies.

“There’s one of them now, Paw!” called a boy from atop the upstairs.

Santa looked up and saw 8-year-old Junior leveling, what looked to be a Red Ryder carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle at him.

Santa ran desperately toward the front door of the house knowing full well that he would be lucky if he was only hit by a BB. A stinging pain on his left butt cheek forced him to jump a little as he heard the boy cry out, “I got him paw, I got him!”

Santa was barely outside the door when a large chunk of the door’s frame exploded by his head from as another round of the shotgun.

“Come back here mister Ffff Beee Eye man!” called out the father.

There was no time to think. In an instant Santa was in the sleigh, gaining altitude and taking evasive maneuvers. In the process of a terribly sharp bank to the right Santa’s cooler and his uneaten sandwiches disappeared over the side and, with any luck, Santa hoped, fell onto the Jackson’s roof.

Once the sleigh had righted itself and was free of any danger, Santa pointed the navigation system toward the last stop of the night, Sacramento, Calif.

He briefly considered stopping for more beer and a bite to eat, but decided it would be easier to just finish the delivery and call it a night.

Santa gripped the reigns firmly, steeled his face against the cold night wind and raced for California.

Outside a quiet suburban home in Sacramento, Santa had his first flawless landing of the night. Not a single tree top was trimmed, nor were any of the numerous Priuses along the street scratched, dinged or damaged.

The woefully empty toy sack lifted out of the sleigh with ease. Tired, famished and with a sore left ass cheek, Santa strode confidently to the front door, failing to notice a small sign on the curb that read: “Sacramento Medical Marijuana Dispensary, Please inquire within.”

Santa, partly out of exhaustion and partly out of frustration, wasted no time wiggling his nose and opening the front door.

Everything inside was quiet and peaceful. A fire flickered lazily in the fireplace, the lights on the Christmas tree blinked softly and the whole house smelled wonderfully of freshly baked cookies.

“I wonder if…,” before Santa could finish the thought he saw them — an awaiting plate of cookies and a full glass of milk glistened on the mantel. There was even a small note written in crayon by a child.  “For Santa, thank you. From, Tyler.”

Santa could’ve cried. Could’ve, but didn’t. He gobbled down the cookies like a half-starved madman and then gulped the milk just as quickly.

The snack did the trick, taking Santa’s mind off his hunger for a moment as he reflected on the disastrous evening. The Miller and the Jackson deliveries were botched abortions, yet here, finally, Santa had been handed what looked to be a normal house.

There was mistletoe hung above the door to the kitchen. On the fireplace four stockings were lovingly embroidered with names: Mom, Dad, Raymond and Isabelle.

Beneath the trees were presents from Mom, Dad, the kids, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends. Santa took a moment, drinking it all in, even surveying the family photos adorning the walls.

As he became lost in the Norman Rockwell-look of the Garcia home, a beautiful golden retriever came down stairs.

At first glance the dog startled Santa, but he’d long since become accustomed to family dogs and they’d become used to him. The dog wagged her tail and Santa bent down to give her a good thorough scratching behind the ears and on her belly.

The house was just perfect, he thought. This, he knew, would be his moment, his chance to make amends for the mishaps of the last two deliveries.

This house, he told himself, would end perfectly.

Free to conduct the task at hand, Santa knelt down and reached into his bag.

The first gift he pulled out was addressed to the father, and he set it lovingly under the tree. The next was for the mother and he treated that present in a similar fashion. The kid’s gifts were next and he placed each with loving care at the front of the pile of gifts so that they might be seen first.

Gifts in place, Santa stood up and admired his work. It was odd, he’d been doing this sort of thing for countless years, but this particular set of gifts almost brought tears to his eyes.

As he looked at the picturesque scene, oblivious to the world around him, Mr. Garcia, dressed in pajamas came downstairs in search of a midnight snack.

“Whoa, dude, you are real,” Garcia’s voice rang out from behind Santa.

Yeah, Santa got high.  Deal with it.

Yeah, Santa got high. Deal with it.

Santa jumped, but not so much. The serenity of the house had, for once this night, soothed him.

Typically in this sort of situation Santa would have activated his invisibility shield the moment anyone walked into the room, but, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he didn’t.

Instead he giggled.

Santa giggled, and giggled and giggled some more. Garcia giggled too.

“Dude,” Santa finally managed to say, “I’ve always been real, man.”

“I knew it,” Garcia said in hushed tones, “You’re like awesome and stuff. Man, my kids love you. Hell, I love you.”

Yeah,” Santa replied with wide grin and an upnod. “Shit, man I just do …stuff. It’s cool.”

“I totally know you do, bro!,” Garcia said. “You have like THE best job in the world. No doubt.”

Then he paused for a moment to rethink that statement.

“Well, actually,” Garcia snickered. “I have the BEST job in the world.”

It was about this time that Santa realized something was amiss. He suddenly craved Cheetos and had an unbelievable case of cottonmouth.

“Hey,” Santa said, moving in slow motion across the room. “Ya got something to drink?”

“Ohhhh,” Garcia said gleefully bouncing up and down and pointing at Santa, “How you feelin’, vato?”

“I feel funny,” Santa remarked

“Yeah ya do, man, those cookies had some of the dankest bud in Cali in them,” Garcia said, before adding, to no one in particular, “Man, I got Santa stoned!”

Seeing the panic cross Santa’s face, Garcia walked over and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, yo. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m not gonna be the guy who killed Santy Clogs,” he said.

The next few hours were hazy for Santa. They talked about life, sports, women, toys. They solved countless world ills and brainstormed numerous life-improving inventions. Santa learned what Carne Asada was and Garcia tried, but failed, to open doors with a nose wiggle.

After some time Santa felt good enough to leave and his hunger was a thing of the past, two bags of Doritos and half a cold pizza had seen to that. After promising to stay in touch, the two men parted ways.

Outside, back in his sleigh, Santa took off into the cool morning air.

He wanted a drink, a beer before going home. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton and he wanted just 15 minutes to clear his head of all the night’s activities. The onboard GPS told him there was one bar, just outside of Portland, that was open at this hour on Christmas Day.

“Billy Ray’s it will have to be,” Santa said to the reindeer as he piloted the sleigh north.

(Had a Few Beers: This is the special Christmas update, the second of a three-part series. Be sure to check back soon for the conclusion, or to receive notifications of when this and other updates are published, you can always subscribe using the button on the right.)

I need your vote … for someone else

Because I’ve been inspired by a fellow blogger who’s been nominated for an award (more about this in a moment) I think I’d like to take this update and give something educational and cultural to you, the reader. Maybe someday with more updates like this it might become readers. But let’s not hold our breath.

One of the great things about the holiday season in Europe and specifically Germany is something called gluhwein. Gluhwein is of course wine heated up and spiced. There are two ways that I know of that you can acquire gluhwein and a third way that you should never, ever, ever attempt (I don’t think it’s actually a method through which anyone has ever successfully acquired gluhwein – it’s kind of like that really hard quest at the end of a video game) to get some.

Paderborn, Germany: Christmas market at the Ra...

These would be a lot more enjoyable in July with a glass of cold beer. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The first is to visit one of Germany’s numerous Christmas markets. As it’s really cold here right now you can enjoy a cup while the wife wanders off looking at shiny things. They even serve them in holiday mugs which I think every wife that’s ever visited a German market instantly refuses to return to the stand from which it was purchased and years later asks ‘where the hell did all these fucking mugs come from?”

That’s the first way. The second way, my preferred method, is to buy it already bottled in the store and then heat it in a sauce pan and enjoy in stolen* market mugs near a nice fire. Provided your spouse can locate the dozens of mugs she has squirreled away.

The third, attempt let’s call it, is to ask a German, any German how to make it. You take some wine, some sugar (of which I guess there are about 45 million types suitable for this purpose), some cloves, 14 oranges, 12 lemons, elk meat (raw), tears from a child, and who knows what else. I promise during each and every description of how they make gluhwein you’re mind will eventually wander away.

I mean I’m glad that the nation is proud of their homemade gluhwein recipes but for the love of god stop ear raping me with your stories of the different kinds of cinnamon sticks you use to stir the wein or wine but you knew that.

So see I was helpful for once!

Okay, okay I know I wasn’t helpful but honestly what were you expecting from a blog called, had a few beers? Yeah I thought so.

In the past I’ve asked you for things and some of you have even come through! Although my call for photos of your (well the fairer sex of you anyway) cleavage on my birthday came up a bit short I mean like only one of you participated!

But this time I’m hoping you can take a moment to go to this website here and vote for the blog, ‘Oh God My Wife is German” as the best expatriate blog. I say

English: Ballot Box showing preferential voting

Consider it your patriotic duty (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

with all sincerity it’s a VERY funny blog. That aside the author was very helpful to yours truly when I first stated blogging (he even linked to me and in fact still does from his blog roll– thanks dude!). So I’m hoping we can in some way help push him over the top so I can say, I’m linked to by the award winning, Oh God My Wife is German, blog!

I’m going to insert the instruction he gives his readers on how to vote because let’s face it, if I try to describe the process you’ll all end up at some website like ratemyrack.com wondering where the funny blog is.

One more thing though. Voting ends December 14th so umm, you basically have to do this right now … go, go do it!

So to help them out:

  1. 1. Go to http://www.expatsblog.com/blogs/1129/oh-god-my-wife-is-german.
  2. 2. Scroll to the bottom of the page.
  3. 3. Fill out the fields under, “Leave some love for this blog.”
  4. 4. I know it sucks to give out your email address. I did it already, and I know I can unsubscribe from Expats Blog whenever I want. If you are uncomfortable with the email address part, don’t even worry about it; just keep reading our blog and know how much we appreciate your time and attention!
  5. 5. If you don’t care about the email address part and you actually leave us a good vote? THANK YOU! If our blog wins, we’ll likely write a special post to thank you for your time!