Carol Concert

The season of goodwill is over, and gentlemen can now stop resting merry until the next glad tidings of comfort and joy arrive and it starts all over again. Damon Runyon takes a more jaundiced view than most:

Personally, I am thinking that this Wenceslas is not such a guy as I am wishing to give the large hallo to, and, though I do not want to appear an aggressive character, his ever-loving page seems to me to be asking for a poke in the smush every time he opens it, and the same goes for this old peasant too, though he does not say much, being more occupied in loafing around nicking bits of firewood and hoping it will rain cheeseburgers.

The reason I am leading off in this way is that last Wednesday I am having to attend some function where many citizens are fondly garping at their offspring while these offspring pay much attention to this Wenceslas and other guys who are doing such things as watching flocks. Now I am not denying that these guys are doing a great job with their flocks and all, but what I am not understanding is why many guys and in particular dolls are given the misty eye by listening to such things, while personally it leaves me as cold as a Republican convention, which believe me is very cold indeed.

So I am sitting there with these kids ding-donging merrily on high and all the time wondering why I am not in Batty’s Bar with Scissors Pavlovsky and other solid citizens and their dolls who could not tell St. Agnes’ Fountain from a packet of soda-mints but who know a lot more stories than this guy Wenceslas and all these shepherds put together. Maybe it is just that I am an unworthy character, but it is a well-known fact that many guys and dolls who get all steamed up over First Nowells and such are very slippery customers indeed, and would sell their grandmothers to the old clothes man just like anybody else.