The Nog And The Cookies
by Michele Christopher

Christmas Time Stories!

Happy Monday! And to those in other parts of the world, happy whatever day it is! Today is the day we talk about memories of said holiday. Some good and some bad. I know Michele is loaded with them and I have one or two, so we decided that you guys would actually care enough to read ours and maybe even share some of the better ones you have.

Hey, we always have high hopes.

But anyways, today we will hopefully make this a fast trip down memory lane cause in all reality, I only have one and it's really not that great. So what are we waiting for? Let's start this out!

turtle had a plan....

It's Christmas, right? Back of the pool hall waiting for the Christmas parties to start, right? Well let's get all festive and drink something festive!

Well, that was the plan. A bunch of us were dead broke on Christmas Eve waiting for the sun to go down so the parties would start. I really hate walking into a party with no money or beer. Really makes you look like some kind of low class slob, but when you are broke, you kind of have to take a bite sometimes. Besides, it was Christmas! Christmas spirit and all that good shit. Someone would have to let us in for free and/or get us drunk for free. Someone would feel up to it.

Well, it didn't happen. As the sun went down, we got kicked out of more and more parties. Christmas spirit my ass. I think I got a few beers in me and that's all. We needed more. After all, the big J-man was born on this day. Or tomorrow. Still not sure of what goes on in these two days. I think the big J-Dog died somewhere around Easter. I know this because bunnies are the Mesopotamian symbol of death. I think.eggnogbad.jpg

But back to Christmas eve. We needed to get drunk and were broke. What do you do when you need to get loaded and have no cash? Beer run! Sacrilegious? Not if we steal Christmas time booze!

So long story short, we all ripped off bottles of pre-made whisky and eggnog. One big mixed up bottle of goo. It seemed like a good idea at first. It's got booze and it's like, well, yule-time like shit, right? So we whisked ourselves away with four bottles of this stuff. Putrid green and warm. Sitting behind an alley, we broke the seals on our warm prizes and drank it back. Guzzling at first. Then slowing down to a crawl. This stuff was pure mud going down our throats. Just sitting in our stomachs. I couldn't move. This was a sipping drink. I guess. Well it had better serve the common good and at least get us tipsy.

My stomach was hurting as I stood up for air. Lit a smoke and shook my head.

No effect. What the fuck. I can still stand. What the fuck?

I tried to close one eye, walk a straight line, even do the alphabet backwards.

All to no avail.

Something was wrong.

I was still sober.......

Seems this pre-made liquored up bottle of "The Nog" was only 15 percent. 30 proof. Jeez.

*Physics time at FTTW!

Q - If a 175 pound man drank a 1.75 bottle of 30 proof warm eggnog, how much will it take him to get drunk?

A - He will never get drunk. The amount of sugary goo and cream crap will make him sick long before the bottle is half empty.

Bonus Question - If this same man keeps drinking it after he throws it up several times, how long will it take then before he gets drunk?

A - Surprisingly enough, the man will still not get drunk and probably be sick for a day or so.

So in the end, what have we learned today?

That 30 proof booze won't get you drunk unless you have a lot of time on your hands, the types of booze you steal should not, NOT, be altered just cause some baby was shot out of some virgin's ass some 2000 years ago, and not matter how you spell eggnog, it still just sucks.

Now go out and spread some holiday cheer. - T

Michele sings C is for Cookie:

I can't bake.

There, I said it.

I can cook. I can cook a gourmet meal for my entire family at a moment's notice. Just whip something up right from my imagination and turn out a kick ass meal. But put some flour and baking shit in front of me and I'll freeze on the spot. Baking leaves me frustrated, angry and stabby. So generally, I don't do it.

Yet one December night a few years ago I found myself standing in my kitchen, elbow deep in flour and frosting? Why? I blame my sister.

notyourcookies.jpgI work with my sister. She's this social butterfly, someone who lives to socialize and mingle. She's the one who organizes the office birthday breakfasts and holiday luncheons and any of those get togethers I try to avoid. I'm not what you call social. While everyone else is chatting and eating and whatnot, I prefer to sit alone in my office and mutter under my breath about everyone else. But because she's my sister, sometimes I have to partake in these things she organizes. Because I'm a good sister like that.

That particlular year, it came time for the annual cookie trade-off lunch. This is where all the secretaries get together for a holiday lunch, and bring a dozen home-baked cookies for each person attending. This was my fourth Christmas in this office building and I had avoided the cookie exchange every year until then. But my sister would have none of that this year. She just went ahead and signed me up for this thing without asking. Why? Because she is a sadist. I must have done something to her in our childhood that she wanted to get back at me for. Maybe she was getting even for the time I allegedly threw her down the cement basement stairs. Allegedly.

I suppose I could have e-mailed the head cookie cutter and bailed out on the exchange, but I figured what the hell. Maybe if I did it this one year, they would leave me alone for the next three. And it was one less thing my sister could bring up at a later date.

So I found myself in my kitchen staring down a recipe and a mess of ingredients. Just staring. Looking at the butter and sugar and vanilla and flour. I felt overwhelmed. There was no way I could do this. I looked at the picture on the recipe card. There was no way my cookies would ever come out looking like that. I'd show up for this thing and put my cookies on the table and all the other women would point and laugh at me. They were all Martha Stewarts. I was more Martha....Quinn. I'd be laughed at and branded a failure and probably end up with an office nickname like Cookie Monster.

I cried in self pity for about ten minutes before I pulled myself together.

I had options here. Well, one option.


And there were differents ways to cheat.

First degree cheating:

1. Go to bakery.
2 Buy fresh made, gorgeous, incredibly delicious cookies.
3. Put them on throw-away Christmas plate, wrap in something festive.
4. Pretend like you slaved over a hot oven all night making them.

Second degree cheating:

1. Buy the Pillsbury frozen cookie mix stuff.
2. Follow directions on package.
3. Put them on throw-away Christmas plate, wrap in something festive.
4. Pretend like you slaved over a hot oven all night making them.

I opted for second degree cheating, sugar cookie style. Hell of a lot cheaper than choice A.

Have I mentioned I suck at baking? Even when most of the process is taken out of my hands?

First, I followed the directions carefully. One rounded teaspoon of dough per cookie. Well, I did that and the cookies were the size of a baby's toenail. 6 cookies wasted.

cookiem.jpgFresh batch. I made them a little bigger; somewhere between a tablespoon and a scoop. This time they weren't rounded enough and came out looking like lumps of brown coal.

Fresh batch. I decided to throw some flour into the mix and roll out the dough. I had no cookie cutters, but I found the cover to one of my nephew's bottles and used that to cut the dough into large circles. They came out the perfect size and shape. I was on my way to cookie goddess.

I couldn't leave well enough alone, could I? I was stoked after that batch of cookies came out looking like, well, cookies. So I thought, gee, I can't just give plain sugar cookies! They have to be decorated. I was ready. I had green and red colored sugar and some Christmas tree shaped sprinkles.

I let the cookies cool a bit. I sprinkled the sugar on. It rolled off.

I pressed the sugar on. The cookie broke.

Fresh batch. A light bulb goes off in my head. Of course! I sprinkle the sugar on before they bake! This way it will be cooked right on top and I won't have to worry about it rolling off the cookie! I am S-M-R-T smart!

They came out looking like someone threw up in my baking pan. Blotches of red, green and brown vomit.

I should mention that at this point I was sharing my cookie baking festivities with my good friend, Jack Daniels. Jack's a nice guy and all, but you spend a little too much time with him and things get a little freaky.

Fresh batch. I somehow had to find something to put on top of the cookies when they are cooled that will make the sugar stick to them. What could I use? Think, Michele, think. I stared at Jack. He stared back at me. Then it hit me.

Frosting! Frosting is the glue that holds all baking disasters together!

I only had pink frosting, though. But I have the bright idea to mix some red food coloring into the frosting until it looks... Christmasy. I stirred and poured and stirred and finally the frosting was red, albiet the consistency of water. At that point I didn't care. I reminded myself over and over that I ddin't even like the people who woudl be eating these cookies.

I took each cookie, smeared it in blood red frosting and then poured the colored sugar over them. They ended up looking like what would happen if Rachel Ray and Andy Warhol got together and took some acid before baking an art project. I would have been in tears at that point if I wasn't so buzzed. Instead I was laughing. But it was the laugh of a woman on the verge of a cookie breakdown.

I decided to give it one more try. Put the thinking cap back on. What is wet enough, yet doesn't taste like shit, that I could put on top of the cookies to make the sugar stick?

pam.jpgAnd then I see it, right there in my cabinet.

Pam no-stick spray. Buttered flavor. Of course.

Fresh batch. When they were done and cooled, I sprayed each cookie with a little Pam, hysterically laughing to myself that I had reached so low a point. I took each non-stick coated cookie and turned it upside down in a pile of red and green sugar. Voila! I had Christmas cookies.

I baked.

They were the ugliest, worst tasting cookies this side of dog biscuits. I didn't care. I made them.

And I laughed all that week at the fact that the cookie club women were eating cookies whose main ingredient is no-stick spray, and which may or may not have fallen on my kitchen floor.

Go ahead, let them call me Cookie Monster.

C is for god damn ugly cookies. -M

So those our are stories de la Christmas! I guess no matter what happens during your Christmas, every thing seems all right. I mean no one died or anything like that, so I guess everything was cool.

So now that we told you about some of the better ones we have, what are your Christmas memories?

Michele and Turtle do have Christmas memories that don't involve alcohol. They're just not as funny.




i forgot to add that rooster sauce had no part in either of these stories.

hey, it was a long time ago. We were rooster virgins then, ok?


Christmas Eve, 1982. All day long I was waiting for Christmas Eve Ham (right next to the regular ham in your local market), and waiting for people to show up so we could start eating.

I was really hungry, so I didn't realize at first that my stomach felt a little weird.

Finally, dinner. Filled that plate and ate it all, then puked it about 40 minutes later.

Every year at Christmas Eve I tell the story of the bits of pinapple pig and scalloped potatoes that came out my nose.


"Every year at Christmas Eve I tell the story of the bits of pinapple pig and scalloped potatoes that came out my nose."



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