It's Christmas season again, and you know what that means, Blobophiles.
"Blood sugar spikes? Marauding, over-stimulated toddlers? Aunt Wilhelmina's festive Jell-O Mold From Beyond Space And Time?" you're saying.
Uh, not where I was going.
No, where I was going was, it's Christmas season again, and that means a brief pause in the clamor of our days. It means, for those of us who observe, a chance to celebrate the birth of a Prince of Peace whose grace transcends the madness of kings and wanna-be kings, and every other madness besides.
Which is to say: Happy Merry Christmas Holidays, everyone. Health and good fortune and every other blessing to you and yours from the Blob, which really, really means it despite your suspicion I'm just joking around like usual.
I'm not. And to prove it, 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, everyone.
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