It’s that time of year again, folks. Christmas spirit is in the air, along with the intoxicating aroma of roasting ham and baking cookies… and of course, the cloying fug of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke as my family descends upon our house like a cloud of locust ready to devour my happiness.
Our Christmas day has officially begun. Family members squeeze through our straining front door in twos and threes, piling their coats on me like some sort of flesh- and- bone coat rack.as soon as every one has arrived, grandma settles her bulk at the kitchen table armed with a pack of winstons and mean bitch slap. Her grandchildren flock to her with an excited greeting and a dutiful kiss on the cheek. The men excuse themselves to the living room, the little children migrate to the playroom, and those of us that have no escape are stuck visiting with grandma. She calls us to sit around her like a mother hen surrounded by her chicks, and begins to systematically destroy our confidence, our faith and our childhood memories.
“do you remember the time, Jane, that the boy you were sweet on came to the house to break up with you? No? Well i do. And it was hilarious. The look on your face! Priceless. And Rachel, I will never forget the time you supposedly won that trophy for cheerleading. You never won a trophy. Your mother bought it for you. Did you know that? She knew that you were the sort of child that would never win anything on her own, or go very far in life. And you haven’t disappointed, have you? Here you sit married to Tom the truck driver who dances at the Man Hole on Tuesdays in women’s clothing and answers to the name of kristy kat. You didn’t know that, either? Baaahahahahaha!” Rachel hangs her head and cries a bit. The tears stop the instant grandma raises her hand for one of her infamous open- hand slaps
As my mother slaves in the kitchen, and grandma ruins another life at the kitchen table, the men are crowded around the TV like so many over grown baboons grunting and hooting at the latest football highlights. My grandfather sits in the overstuffed lay-z- boy recliner. His paunch sits atop a too- tight belt, and his wrinkled, angry face strains over the top button of his shirt. “hey, you, Mary! Come say hello to grandpa!” my name isn’t Mary, but I know any old grandchild will do.
“Mary!” he barks over his corncob pipe. “did I ever tell you about that one-armed hooker named Mary that I saved in the war? You’re named for her, you know,” oh, my god. Is this happening? “yep. Sweet Mary. Having one arm didn’t hold her back any, noooooo ma’am. Despite her handicap, Mary went to work every day and did her job and did it well. They don’t make ‘em like Mary any more. Where is the honor, I ask ya?” An angry profusion of cherry flavored bubbles cascaded over the rim of grandpa’s pipe. But grandpa was right. They probably didn’t make honorable one-armed hookers like Mary any more.
I took this moment of distraction to make my escape. no one had looked in on the children yet, I was sure of it. They were too busy engaging in the time honored tradition of making each other miserable. I passed through the kitchen on my way to the playroom where I was met by my sweat stained, red faced mother. Poor woman. She slaved away in the kitchen every year for these people with little thanks and many complaints. She placed her over- heated hand on my face, looked into my eyes and said “I thought you would have gotten that mole removed by now. Are you broke again? You know, you should just collect some cans and bottles and put the proceeds into a fund. It’s worth it to get that thing removed.” how absolutely horrifying. With that pearl of wisdom lodged in my brain, I made my way to the playroom.
I stepped from the tan carpeted hallway and into the maw of chaos. There was Frank Jr.. In the corner. His shirt was pulled up over his head and his underwear stretched to their limits over his belly button. Tammy, Lisa, Benny and Sam were beating the snot out of him with foam rubber ball bats. As I approached to stop this tragedy, I was stopped in my tracks by something slippery beneath my shoe. Was that… A condom? I followed the trail of wrappers to the window where Peter sat in a blaze of winter sunshine, a grin on his fat, triumphant face and a condom on every finger. His sister sat placidly by his side removing the heads of her doll collection. I had seen enough. Any belief I had had in natural selection faded in an instant.
As I raced into the hallway, I collided at top speed with my father. He was wearing his seasonal attire. Green corduroy slacks, a reindeer sweater and one of those hats with a beer can. affixed to either side with a network of straws that rested beneath his chin, waiting for the next guzzle.”slow down there, punkin’! Where’s the fire? Wait, I can answer that. ‘s’prolly in the kitchen with your ma! Ha!”
“Ha ha, dad. I am going to go get a drink. I would ask if you wanted anything, but I can see that your beverages are strapped to your head.” I said.
“Aaawww, has Christmas gotcha down, honey buns?” Why the hell would he call me that? “Know what I do when life gets me down? Well, I hide myself in my closet with my dirty magazines and drink until I can’t feel feelings any more. After I am done crying and pukiing, and the headache go’s away. I feel a whole bunch better.”
“Uh, thanks, dad.”
“Hey, honey?”
“Yeah, dad?”
“Glad we had this talk.” he smiled a drunken smile.

It was finally time for dinner. Grandpa sat at the head of the table, Grandma at the foot. They glowered at each other over the burnt carcass that sat smoking at the table’s center. My mother was weeping into her apron over another ruined holiday meal. My father and uncles were placidly slurping beer from there stupid hats. Peter struggled manfully to feed himself slippery hunks of sweet potato with his condom covered fingers. “And you, Nora. How could any of us forget the time you peed your tights at your ballet recital! You cried like a bitch, you did. Ha!” grandma sneered over the long ash of her cigarette. Grandpa barked a laugh that sent a cloud of pink bubbles sailing merrily over the table.
I took a deep breath and calmly, gracefully lowered my face into the steaming bowl of soup before me. Murray Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

A few days ago, I was cooking dinner for my family. I had the Tv on, not so much so I could watch a particular show, but to have some nice background noise whilst I slaved in the kitchen. While I was chopping onions, something strange caught my ear… I don’t pay much particular mind to condom commercials in general, but this one struck me as odd, being that it was aired some what earlier in the day than usual. Another oddity that struck me was the fact that the commercial was advertising “Trojan Bearskin Condoms”. I was astonished, to say the least. I quickly looked at the TV, hoping to prove myself wrong. I was, in fact, wrong. the advertisement was actually for “Trojan Bare Skin Condoms”. Unfortunately, my over- excitable brain had already taken the concept of a world that included bearskin condoms to an incredible height.
In that brief period of time, my mind was able to ask questions such as: “who’s idea was this?” and “wouldn’t they be horribly abrasive?” I wondered if the fur would be on the inside of the condom, or the outside, and if you could pay extra for the bear paw to remain attached. Who would be their target market? Bestiality enthusiasts?
Bestiality. That led me to my next question… Would condoms such as these be tested on animals? Let us assume, for the sake of the readers’ entertainment, that the condoms are, in fact, tested on animals. Who do you suppose would do the honors of actually testing the product? I don’t think there would be many eager volunteers within the Trojan company! I wonder if they could go to the local prisons and look for people who have been charged with inappropriate interspecies relations and bestiality and the like. The interview process would probably be fascinating, to say the least….

“Mr. McDonald, we have been given to understand that you own a farm, is this correct?”
“Why, yes sir, it is.”
“And on this farm, you have some pigs?”

Needless to say, dinner was on the table a little bit later than usual that evening…

Before the invention of the modern 5- bladed razor, the battery operated beard trimmer and the electric hair clippers, a razor was in use that would hardly be recognized by the modern male.

     During the Civil War, Men used a hair- removal tool known as the “straight razor”. The straight razor was a four inch length of sharpened steel that was affixed to a carved ivory handle. Much like today, a typical shaving kit would include a razor, a towel and shaving cream. A man would drape the towel about his neck, lather his face with thick, white shaving soap, and begin the hair removal process. This is where the shaving ritual drastically differs from that of today’s man. Instead of using the razor to glide over the skin, cutting the hair at it’s base; the straight razor was used to remove the top several layers of flesh.

   This may sound unbelievable to most, but I assure you, as gruesome as it sounds, it is completely true. It was thought that six to eight weeks of baby- smooth facial hairlessness could be achieved by attempting to remove the layer of epidermis that contained the hair follicle. This, as I’m sure you can imagine, was a long, painful and very messy process.

   For those of you who find this history a difficult tale to swallow, simply take a look at the photographic evidence. It would appear in the pictures that men in the Civil War era wore long, bushy beards. Due to the level of photographic technology available at the time, these pictures are slightly blurry. What you are actually seeing are large, dark, blood- soaked rags worn on and around the chin and tied in a knot at the top of the head. A hat was usually worn over the bandage to disguise the knot and produce a more secure fit. People often wonder why such a stern countenance was worn in these photographs. We are not entirely sure why the women looked so grim, but it is a fact that the masculine features were downcast and surly due to their healing facial wounds. These expressions were in marked contrast to the look usually born by men, which was a terrifying display of facial muscles pulled into a rictus of horrible pain.  

   These facial wounds, inflicted in the spirit of male vanity in persuit of good looks, were very deep and usually bled for days. They were also prone to a multitude of infections. If a man didn’t die of one of the deadly diseases of the time, and if he wasn’t struck down in battle, it was likely that he died as the result of his facial wound, festering unseen behind the large blood- soaked bandages.

   After twenty years of this type of depilation, a law was created that made shaving with a straight razor illeagle on both sides of the Mason- Dixon line. The only acceptable use for the straight razor was trimming the fabric of one’s pants (this is where the cut- off jort was born) or the stealthy slitting of an enemy’s throat.

   The Civil War was a trying and dangerous time for mankind. Battle, bloodshed and disease were common causes of death. But history doesn’t describe the wounds that men would inflict upon themselves in their quest for masculine beauty. These were the truely pitiful deaths that we hope never to see again.