And now, here we go again. My fellow Christians, this year your celebrations of the birth of Jesus will be interrupted by a bothersome church service. Can you imagine the audacity of having a birthday on a day as important and busy as Christmas? You’d think God would have planned better. I mean look at both Abe Lincoln and George Washington. Those guys had the good sense to be born on a day, a Monday, instead of a fickle, ever drifting date like the 25th. It would have been nice if Abe and George had been born on different Mondays so we could get two days off, but you can’t expect them to think of everything.

Anyway, I once dated a girl who belonged to one of those Christian denominations that didn’t celebrate Christmas, or Easter, or Lent, or anything at all. I could probably name the denomination and not get too much flack because it is one of those denominations that doesn’t have a sense of humor and thus wouldn’t be caught dead reading this, but I’ll leave the name out. It’s better that way. It affords you the opportunity to assume it’s a denomination you don’t like. We’re both happier that way. Anywho-, I asked the girl’s mother why they didn’t celebrate Christmas and she said, “We celebrate the birth of the Lord everyday.” On the surface that seems like pretty sound thinking to me. Why pick out one day to hype your savior when you could, and probably should, hype your savior everyday? I don’t think that you sin if you don’t celebrate Christmas on the 25th. And it is okay to love God the other 364 days of the year.

But- here comes the rub. Two weeks before what many people in the US refer to as Christmas Day, I went to visit my girlfriend at her house. In the living room was a big evergreen decked out with lights, glass globes, tinsel…the works. Even a star on top. I said, “What’s that? I thought you didn’t celebrate Christmas.” My girlfriend’s mother said, “We don’t. But on the twenty-fifth we give each other gifts.”

Huh.

Not long into that conversation I also learned that my girlfriend and her siblings each got the exact same number of gifts. That way, it was explained to me, nobody gets jealous of how many presents anyone else got.

That means some of those gifts were just pure fluff and filling. The only reason they were purchased was to fill out the quota.

My last question was, “Why do you do this on the twenty-fifth of December if you are not celebrating the birth of Jesus anymore than on any other day?”

The mother said, “Because everybody else does it.”

“So,” I said, “your not celebrating the birth of Jesus, you’re just participating in a massive, selfish act of materialism.”

My girlfriend’s mother didn’t speak to me for three months. Best non-celebration of Christmas gift I ever got.

My point? It’s simple. I don’t care what you do on the twenty-fifth of December. If you want to gather around a tree and give gifts to your loved ones simply because you love them and it is fun to give, I think that’s great. Knock yourself out. Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and atheists are as entitled to, or not to, give gifts on the twenty-fifth as anybody else. If you want to do nothing on the twenty-fifth because you think Christians suck and have ruined the world, that’s fine by me, too. But, if you claim to be a Christian, and I do, then please don’t mar up my celebration by demanding that your Wal-Mart clerk wishes you a Happy Day that Jesus was born, and then gripe and moan when you have to go to church on the kid’s birthday.

One: Know that you are hunting bear to begin with. 

Bear hunting is not a ‘spur of the moment’ activity.  If you are in the woods and see a bear, and then decide, “I am hunting bear,” you are at a distinct disadvantage.  You probably won’t have the proper equipment at hand.  It is another matter altogether if a bear suddenly sees you and decides, “I am hunting people.”  Bears are born with the proper equipment to hunt you.  If the bear initiates the hunt, you cannot then decide, “I am hunting bear.”  At that point you are not hunting.  You are screwed.

Two: Have a weapon capable of dramatically halting a bear’s forward progress. 

A big rifle is the best choice.  A big rifle that holds a lot of bullets.  Some bear hunters use bows and arrows, but people who hunt bears with bow and arrows are generally people who are not rich enough to be Republicans, and thus cannot afford guns, which is why Walter Mondale and Al Gore never shot a guy in the face.  Arrows are so remarkably slow that you can usually get out of the way before they hit you, especially if you are a bear, or a Democrat.  And most bears are Democrats.  We know this because even though they could eat meat all the time, they often eat skunk-cabbage and berries instead.

Three:  Remember, bears are not aardvarks. 

You cannot hunt bears the same way you can hunt aardvarks.  Everybody knows that you can stop an aardvark by saying, “Oh man, here comes that crazy aardvark,” and then grabbing it by its long nose and smacking it into a tree, or the ground. This will not work on a bears because bears are not aardvarks.  Furthermore, bears and aardvarks often share trade secrets and thus bears have found a way to cleverly disguise their abnormally long noses.  Additionally, aardvarks are not Democrats.

Four: Start with small bear, then work your way up. 

Start with the smaller bear species.  Black bears, for example, would be a good place to start.  Polar bears and Kodiaks would be poor first choices.  And koala bears, while small, are not bears- despite their name.  They are cunning and untrustworthy marsupials.  Untrustworthy marsupials are not fun to hunt because sometimes they just pretend to be dead, until you put them in your pocket, at which point they set up house and then you have to explain to everyone why you have a marsupial in your pants.  Plus, a lot of marsupials are amateur magicians and are always saying, “Look- nothing in my pocket.”  And then they turn their pockets inside out, which can be rather disgusting. One advantage, however, to having a koala around is that if you are walking in the woods with a koala, and you meet a real bear, often the two will begin to argue about the koala’s ‘bear’ status.  These are often long arguments and so if, during the argument, you decide, “I am hunting bear,” you will likely have time to run home, get a weapon, and then sneak up on the real bear while it is distracted by the lying marsupial.  Panda bears should not be hunted because they are extinct.

Four: Don’t hunt bear naked.

This sends the wrong message.

Five:  Locate suitable bear habitat.

Find an area to which it is financially reasonable for you to travel.  You don’t want to waste all your money just getting to the place where you are going to hunt.  Let’s face it, you probably aren’t coming back, so leave a little cash behind for the family.  Go somewhere close to home.  Some suitable bear habitats include: the woods, dark caves, dumpsters, campgrounds, and, presently, Wall Street.  Zoos are not suitable bear hunting habitats.  Nor is Soldier Field.

Six: Go hunt bear!

Once you have decided to hunt bear, have outfitted yourself with a suitable weapon, dressed, chosen a destination, and checked your pockets for marsupials, you are ready to hunt bear.  Good luck.

Note on hunting licenses and permits:

Licenses and permits are not needed to hunt bears.  Bears are considered to be varmints because they often get into garbage cans, and because they are often Democrats.  There is even some data suggesting that polar bears hold to the liberal-minded idea that their habitat is shrinking.

Note on Tree Stands:

Some bear hunters prefer to use a tree stand.  Tree stands are platforms way up in trees from which the hunter can scan a large area of terrain, and sit comfortably.  Tree stands also provide the hunter a safe place to be should a bear decide to hunt humans.  Everybody knows bears can’t climb trees.  This stems from their group insurance policy deeming tree climbing a dangerous activity.  So, for insurance reasons, the only bear you are likely to find in a tree is a koala bear, and they are not bears- no matter what they tell you.  Therefore, it is unnecessary to hunt bears from a tree stand.  Incidentally, bears have been strongly urged by their life insurance companies to not engage in the sport of being hunted.

I have seen some folks wearing stretchy pants to combat the drooping trousers effect, but, let’s face it, if you are at the stage in your life where you are gardening for pleasure you have probably passed the point in your life were you look good in stretchy pants. No offense. Bless your heart.

Just a quick review of outdoor occupations/tasks associated with attractive participants: Pool Boy, Cabana Boy, Lifeguard, Lawn Boy River Guide, Swimsuit Model. No gardeners on the list.

Lawn Boy is close to gardener, but the truth is, when we think of famous gardeners we think of folks like Mr. McGregor. When I think of gardeners I get an image of a teapot in my head. This is no doubt a result of all the gardeners I remember from childhood being bitter, bunny killing, English characters in stories.

Further detracting from your ability to be “hot” while you are gardening is the fact that while you are gardening you often have to interact with compost, dirt, and slugs. It is hard to be vain while you are dealing with rotted broccoli, manure, and the stink of rotten leaves. The same thing holds true for cooking poultry. No matter how good you think you look, nobody wants you touch them when you have raw chicken on your hands. And just see how far you get if you say to someone, “Baby, umm, you look like a slug and smell like the bottom of a pond.”

Anyway, my point is that vanity wrecked my garden last year. I got into the gardening arts because I love spaghetti sauce. We grow parsley, oregano, basil, rosemary, cattails, dandelions, and weeds in a small herb garden by the kitchen door. When I make spaghetti I’ll snatch a handful green stuff from the herb garden, chop it up, and throw it in my skillet full of Newman’s Own Garden Herb & Garlic pasta sauce. Why? Because by putting my own homegrown herbs into the sauce I feel I’ve contributed to the ‘homemadeness” of the meal.

And then I got the bright idea, “I bet I could make sauce just as good as Paul’s, and save money to boot if I planted my own garden and made my own sauce from scratch!” (I tried not to think about the fact that Mr. Newman raises money for sick kids by selling his sauce) I also thought this would save time. Gotta be quicker to run out to the backyard, pick some tomatoes, peppers, garlic, onions, parsley, and catnip, chop it all up, and render all that into sauce, then it would be to drive two miles to Kroger. Right?

I planted the plants and made my offerings to the various gods of organic gardening. An interesting side note on the gods of organic gardening is that most of these gods are agnostic and thus don’ t even believe in themselves- and they are omnipotent, so they should know.

I began dreaming of all the pasta sauce I was going to make. I dreamt of eating pasta every night, or maybe every night I dreamt of eating pasta. Both statements are true. I like pasta. I had visions of canning pasta sauce in Mason jars, putting the jars in food baskets, giving them to friends, family, visiting dignitaries, deserving secretaries, distinguished functionaries, legionnaires, engineers, my paper boy, postman, and trash men. (I’m not being sexist. My paper person, postal person and trash people are all male.)

I dreamt of handing out jars of sauce by the thousand and each time proudly stating, or even shouting, “Everything in this jar came from my garden!”

There would be “Ohhs” and “Ahhs.” Awards. Offers of marriage. Sponsorships. Private jets. A TV show. Tabloid stories. Fast cars. Addictions. Detox. A bad movie starring Larry the Cable Guy. Oh man, I rest my case. Any subject about which you could film a movie starring Larry the Cable Guy can’t possibly be about anything sexy. Go ahead, take another bite of that waffle while thinking of Larry the Cable Guy bent over- in stretchy pants.

So I toiled in the soil. I watered, I sweated, I tended, I pruned, I weeded, I killed bugs (organically, so they didn’t mind) I fertilized, I picked. I harvested, I chopped, boiled and canned.

But my vanity was like a blight. It attracted the bugs like a pheromone. And not just an ordinary pheromone, or even a county-pheromone. I’m talking about something like a state-pheromone. The kind of pheromone that draws thousands of cotton candy starved RVers to the fair grounds every August.

No matter what I tried, something always ate my produce before it was ripe enough to harvest. I ended up with about eight tomatoes, two peppers, and something that was either a small clove of garlic or a grub.

In the end, I held up a single jar of spaghetti sauce and lamely proclaimed: “Everything from my garden is in this jar.”

I listed it on Ebay starting at $1,250.00. That’s what it’ll take to get my original investment back.