No doubt most of you, upon receiving this message, will consider it a classic “good news/bad news” situation. The good news is that Frank can type again, his hands almost completely healed after the unfortunate lutefisk incident. The bad news is that your spam filter is clearly on the fritz.

Be that as it may, we invite you to relax before a roaring Yule or house fire and fill a needle with festive heroin nog as we regale you with our annual tradition, which is quickly becoming a yearly custom and which we hope one day to turn into a perennial practice.
 

His many well-wishers and debtors will be tickled to know that Frank has been working for the past several months on a hard-hitting TV show called “Navy Ike, USMC Army Guy.”  It’s about a famous chef/criminal attorney/private detective who specializes in investigating crimes that have already been solved. It’s filled with more drama, pathos and gratuitous nudity than you’d think, seeing as the entire show takes place in the microfilm room of a public library.
 

Frank was glad for the job, of course, but not quite so happy about the pay scale. The network originally wanted to pay him entirely in krill. But after relentless negotiation by his crafty agent, Crafty Swift, the network added a hefty year-end bonus of chum.
  Claire’s career, always exciting, debilitating and a tad malodorous, now has a duel purpose. And that’s not a misspelling – she really does get into lots of sword fights.
 

First, she has had a productive year teaching at the Criminy Dutch Institute for Archaic Epithets and is spearheading a national campaign to introduce the word “prithee” into the Pledge of Allegiance.
 

Second, her passion for cooking continues unabated and uneaten. Her culinary interest took on a new dimension earlier this year when she inadvertently spent four months with a traveling carnival. (Long story short, she saw a burly carny helping to erect a Ferris wheel, became confused, thought he was Frank and instinctively began detailing the ways in which he was doing it wrong. The annoyed carny struck her on the head with one of the midway’s most popular attractions, the World’s Largest Cuttle Fish, and when she came to she was two states away and three sheets to the wind.) While with the carnival (during which, by the way, she became known as the Bearded Lady but only because she kept her back to everyone) she was introduced to the powerful concept of food on a stick. Inspired, she developed Chicken-Paprikash-On-A-Stick which won her a blue ribbon, which she also put on a stick. Eventually, as is her wont, she went overboard with the whole “on-a-stick” idea, putting everything she could think of on a stick, including the pets.
 

In happier news, we’re proud to announce that our oldest son Abigail has finally been admitted to a college, although the college still won’t admit that he’s there. He’s attending the Cicada Academy of Soothing Noises where he majors in geophagia. Abby’s an inquisitive child with a scientific bent, as well as an actual bent resulting from his birth, which was only partly Caesarian. He has conducted ingenious and often horrifying experiments ever since he was a little girl. We’ll never forget the turmoil around the Thompson Manse when he began trying to figure out how to ferment his clothing. Concerned school officials tried several times to expel him but were never successful. Each time they came into his presence they got so woozy that they forgot what they were going to say.
 

The twins, Wellington Napoleon Waterloo Harvard Brown Thompson and his uncannily similar brother Stinky, continue to try to forge individual identities, often going so far as to actually wear separate pants.
 

Stinky recently surprised and delighted us by writing and producing a Christmas play for his class. In the spirit of the holiday, we offer you his script, in hopes that you might perform it with your family in your own thousand seat amphitheater.

Enjoy.
 

The Christmas Goose and Angels, with the Tree and Presents and Wrapping:
A Holiday Morality Tale
By
Stinkatholon “Stinky” Thompson
 

The curtain rises on a holiday abattoir, gaily festooned in Christmas finery. TERRANCE, a magical creature with the body of a griffin and the voice of a yak, flies into the room, borne aloft by seven tiny reindeer and HOPE, a thing with feathers. A reticulated thing with feathers.
 

When they land they slip crazily on the floor which is covered in entrails of festive red and green. After sharing a good laugh, they notice a PIRATE brandishing a deadly looking newel post. And they are sore afraid. And sore.
 

PIRATE: Yo, Hope and Terrance. I would have a word with ye.
 

TERRANCE: Hello, pirate. I’m Terrance and this is my friend Hope.
 

HOPE: I’m Hope. Have you met Terrance?
 

PIRATE (slapping himself on the forehead, just above one of this eyepatches): Aargh! Idiots. Didn’t I start off by saying, “Yo, Hope and Terrance?” Wouldn’t you infer from that that I know your names?
 

TERRANCE: Maybe. Personally, I always get “imply” and “infer” mixed up.
 

HOPE: Yeah, he’s magical and stuff, but his grammar skills are virtually nil.
 

PIRATE (raising both of his hooks into the air): Then let us all join in a joyous song of Christmastide.
 

Everyone happily gathers ‘round the beak pit and begins to sing (to the tune of “Pierrot Lunaire”):
 

Once upon a starry night
Out in east Ambroses
Monkeys, ignorant and bright,
Made a meal of toeses.