First of all, we must apologize for sending out our Holiday Greetings so late in the season. We know that many of our friends like a little lead time so they can have completely purged it from their memories by the time Christmas Day arrives. But as you may recall, our St. Swithun’s Day newsletter from last July caused such a firestorm of controversy, and fire, that we have been understandably reluctant to return to the warm glow of the laptop to chronicle our perplexing trek through 2009. But knowing that confused outrage is the gift our friends expect of us, we have persevered.

It is our custom that the one who types this newsletter gets to be the first family member discussed. This year, because he is temporarily the only family member with full use of both thumbs, this falls to Frank and so we shall begin with him.

Frank has been working diligently on weight loss. He lost fifty pounds, then gained it back, then lost it again, then gained it back, and so on. Time lapse photography of him during this period makes Frank resemble one of those balloons on an oxygen pump. One doctor suggested weight-loss surgery. To be specific, he told Frank that if his legs were removed it would result in an immediate loss of some one third of his total mass. Frank, having recently purchased new shoes, decided against it.

All this was precipitated, unless that means rained, when Frank’s doctor informed him that Frank’s blood sugar was roughly twice as high as that of a marshmallow chick; this was traced back to Frank’s diet which has consisted entirely of divinity fudge since 1982. Now he has chosen a healthier path, eating only organic fudge and swapping out at least one helping per day for a plate of steamed kelp. On special occasions, he enjoys a serving of fugu, carelessly prepared by Claire, who dreams of a major insurance payout.
Speaking of Claire, she has continued to work wonders with her charity benefitting children whose hands have palmal aspects but not dorsal. She spends hours in therapy with these unfortunate tots, teaching them to concentrate on the things that they are especially suited for, such as slapping. The work is low-paying, painful, demeaning, insulting, filthy and the hours are brutally long. But it is warmly rewarding in all other ways.

Claire has also had an eventful year regarding cars, having been involved in more accidents than were depicted in “The Blues Brothers.” Our insurance company has seen fit to raise our rates so steadily and substantially that sometimes agents call our house simply to thank us and weep. And Claire has destroyed so many rental cars that our local dealer has added a new option called “The Claire” which offers the renter a bonus if he’s able to total the car before even driving it off the lot.

People keep asking after our triplets and we have to patiently and repeatedly explain that they’re actually twins but that one of them has too many ears, which creates a kind of optical illusion.

First, we’re disappointed to report that neither one has had anything to do with head cheese all year long. Their avoidance was so complete than even when they spent six weeks in Austria, attending the Body Odor Conference, they refused even to try the presswurst. This was a huge disappointment to us, since head cheese is the one reference we can always count on and we feel rather lost without it. Now, how are we to make an aspic joke? How, we ask you.

Typically, for they have the keen sense of direction of a pair of paint cans, the twins got rather lost returning from Austria. They ended up in a small hamlet in Serbia where they were soon lionized for their pungency, for it is a country that appreciates stench. Adele Romaine de la Hura (the older, taller one), was so moved by the experience that she composed an opera called “The Whiff of Truth.” Antoine Gilliat von Blurstein (the younger, even taller one) fervently desired to play the lead in this opera, even though an irregularity of his vocal cords make his singing voice sound much like a duck choking on a petit four. Nonetheless, he was so angered that his twin would not give him the role that he threatened to hold his breath until he turned even bluer than usual. This experience was an eye-opener for him, since it revealed that almost everyone he has ever come in contact with has always been holding his or her breath, but for vastly different reasons, as those of you who know the twins can easily guess.

Our middle girl, Pokey Joe (named after Claire’s brother Armstrong), has been working hard on her new invention, a device to introduce veins back into shrimp. Of course, PJ has always been an innovator. You may remember two years ago when she invented Fritter, a method of communicating instantly using only fried dough.

Always the gourmand, PJ has been doing many other interesting things with food, creating such culinary masterworks as Bavarian Cream Conches, Lightly Whipped Whelp, and, our favorite, Mollusk Clafouti. We have enjoyed many adventurous meals courtesy of PJ and have become closer than we ever dreamed with most of our local ER staff.

But even though these three kids have figured in our lives to some extent or other this year, we’ve mostly left them to fend for themselves, devoting most of our attention to our oldest son Camille. And we’ll tell you why:
Some months ago, Camille made the surprising announcement that he intended to become a fashion designer, despite the fact that he spent his first thirteen years refusing to wear anything but suet. Still, we like to encourage his pursuits (even during that trying period when his twin obsessions were stuffing mattresses with road kill and arson), so, in the spirit of the season, we allowed him to create new Christmas outfits for the whole family.

For Claire he devised a jerkin made of qiviut fiber, which of course is made from the hair of the musk ox, of which Camille owns several, all hairless. Over this, Claire wears a kameez with smocking of what we hope is seaweed and a Peter Pan collar which Camille devised entirely from peanut butter. The whole thing looks smashing, especially when Claire dons her special wimple which she always wears at a rakish angle because it’s made of freshly mined kaolin, weighs some forty pounds and leaves chalky residue on her forehead.

For Frank, he made a manteau with matching gaskin, complete with amusing flocking in each armscye. For head-gear, Camille has created a tarboosh which is both insouciant and malodorous. The color of the entire ensemble, according to Camille, is gamboge, although Frank contends that it’s actually celadon which is, tellingly enough, the color of Camille’s teeth.

All the rest of the kids are adorned in dirndls, ocher in color, over which they wear roquelaures made of jute. On their abnormally small heads, they wear perukes which Camille has somehow programmed to remain perpetually at 22 degrees Kelvin. Regulating a peruke at a frigid level is ingenious on one level but seems abnormally cruel to the kids, all of whom have warmth issues because of having been born without epidermis. But we don’t like to criticize Camille. He’s sensitive. And vengeful.

We began 2009 with a gnawing sense of apprehension, exacerbated by our crushing poverty, antagonistic grocery baggers, infestation of voles and the deep slant in our home’s foundation which made the house resemble a super slide. And we end the year with the grim satisfaction of knowing that things turned out even worse than we feared. So we begin 2010 with the misplaced and almost certainly inaccurate conviction that things can’t possibly get any worse.

But in our heart of hearts, we know that they can. So from all of us, except Camille, to all of you, we offer a bitterly ironic HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

The Thompsons

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.
 

Okay, this isn’t, strictly speaking, a Holiday Greeting but I thought it sort of fit in with the rest of my messages of hope and head cheese. I was emailed this Christmas questionnaire and tried to answer as honestly as I could. I think you’ll agree that it reveals some of the inner workings of that Thompson we call Frank. No matter what time of year you read this, I think it will put you in a warm holiday mood.
  Read the rest of this entry »