Chia Shit

Here's a Yuletide suggestion: if you've considered buying anyone a Chia pet this year, perhaps you should seriously consider euthanasia as a lifestyle choice. Maybe back thirty years ago the idea of growing organic green "hair" on a clay body was a novelty, but who's buying these things today?

They were actually advertising the things on network TV here last week, which was frankly amazing to me. Are there really enough people who can be persuaded to rush out and get a Chia head for their nephews and nieces so as to justify a TV ad campaign? Beer, cars, phone companies and boner pills I understand advertising, but Chia pets?

Pity the poor bastard who wakes up to one of those things on Christmas morning.

"What's in this box? Is it a phone? A Nintendo DS? An iPod?" Cue rustling of paper.

"What the fuck is this? Terrific. No need to head out to that New Year's party next week now - I can stay here and have just as much fun spreading seeds on this bastard."

Spare Some Change

It's time to plan the Christmas festivities. This year's plan involves food, drink and no further planning. There's no travel required and hopefully a minimum of stress. When Mrs Bison was still a girl, her mother, faced with a relaxing Christmas at home, apparently used to talk about finding a tramp and bringing him home for Christmas dinner, a suggestion met, unsurprisingly, with horror from her offspring. I don't know whether she ever seriously considered getting a tramp in, or whether it was just a guilt reaction to having a nice Christmas with good food in a warm home. Maybe she just missed the scent of urine around the house or something.

Yesterday, Mrs Bison was at a school party with Bison Daughter and this other mother asked what we were doing for Christmas. When she heard that we were going to be "alone" with "only one child" and "no family" she instantly invited us for Christmas dinner. Mrs Bison was not happy - in spite of the apparent good intentions she loathed being thought of as a charity case - we actually enjoy having Christmas at home, and it would be hard to imagine anything worse than having to be "on good behavior" at someone else's house, rather than relaxing unkempt with Cadbury's chocolate liqueur and Scotch while Bison Daughter savages Christmas presents at home.

I can only imagine the reaction at the other woman's house if we'd said "yes". We'd be like the tramp from Mrs Bison's childhood, except that we'd actually show up. Hopefully without the urine smell and masturbating in public, but probably no less unwelcome. Narrow escape...

Thistle Be Great

Back last month Jaggy offered to send me some local delicacy from Scotland, after I sent him a bag of beer chips by airmail. I didn't take him up on the offer, partly because the ruinous cost of international food shipment is not something you'd wish on anyone, especially a mate, but mainly because delicacies from Scotland fall into two unsuitable categories. Firstly there are things that are excellent but perishable, and therefore not ideal for putting in a box, in a plane. Half the time things that are sent by airmail actually end up coming by sea, and a haggis that had traveled the world for six weeks would be a risky thing to tangle with. Then there are other things which are excellent and non-perishable, but are out of all proportion to a simple packet of potato chips. 16 year-old Lagavulin would be a case in point - it would be too much to ask for, even if I could trust the post office not to drink/break it. (Fat chance.) Plus, I can already buy it down the road here.

So I didn't think any more about it until today, when an unexpected gift arrived from the old country: Campbells All Butter Shortbread. I used to stay in a hotel in the UK that had these shortbread fingers in the room, along with the tea and coffee, and I was incapable of saving them, taking them home or otherwise not eating them on the spot. So to get a whole packet is a treat indeed. Since Mrs Bison got the mail today, I won't have any choice but to share them this time, but I suppose that's only fair. Without her, Jaggy's beer chips would still be sitting in a cupboard, waiting for me to get my arse down to the post office...