Christmas Eve again, and you know what that means, Blobophiles. It means a brief pause, if you will, for those of us who do so to observe the birth of a Prince of Peace whose grace transcends the madness of all kings and wanna-be kings.
Which is to say: Happy Merry Holidays Christmas, everyone. Health and good fortune and every other blessing to you and yours from the Blob, which occasionally can be less glib than usual if it really tries.
This being Christmas Eve, and Christmas Eve being the province of such things, here's the Blob's annual message, courtesy of Charles Dickens, a crotchety geezer and a few not-quite-random spirits:
"Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea—on, on—until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him."
Merry Christmas.
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