by Jack T. Mule
I’d just like to begin by saying hello to all my fans out there in the Internet. All four of you mean the world to me. What, you expect original jokes from a mule? Look, I’m one of the few talking mules and probably the world’s only blogging mule, there’s only so much I can do. Besides, who’s to say I don’t have four fans?
Anyway, since my lifelong friend and mentor, Billy Jones, encouraged me first to become a writer and now to be his featured guest writer, I thought I might as well tell you what Christmas means to us mules:
For starters, I had ancestors who were there. One of them gave Mary a ride to Bethlehem. Yeah, I know it was an ass that Mary rode and not a mule but it just so happens that my father’s side of the family were all asses-- proud asses-- who can trace their ancestry all the way back to Nazareth over 2000 years ago. You see, for those of you who might have slept through biology class in high school, all mules have fathers who are asses and mothers who are nags-- you know, female horses. As a matter of fact, my mother was an old gray nag. Perhaps you heard of her? She ain't what she used to be so they sold her to make glue.
Now my being a mule and all, I’ve never quite managed to grasp all the nonsense that Christmas has become, especially in recent years. Of course, there is one really good thing about Christmas, that being the fact that for one day a year the followers of one major religion stop declaring war on the followers of other religions and actually practice what they preach. Too bad they don’t wage war one day a year and behave like Christians the other 364.
As I was saying, being a mule and all, I-- like most animals-- see the world in a much different light than do most people. We’re not concerned with presents so much as we’re concerned with living through the holidaze. Thankfully I wasn’t born a pig, chicken, turkey, or goose as I hear this is an especially trying time of year for all of them.
But I was supposed to be telling you how I saved Christmas, right? Well here goes:
It’s been several years ago (I’m not much on keeping up with dates and times, me being a mule and all.) that I, Jack T. Mule, became a very important part of the Christmas celebration. It was late one evening when Billy came by with this friend of his he called, Nick, Nicholas, or something like that. Judging from the long hair, long gray beard, and the red uniform he was wearing, that I thought was what they call, colors, I assumed the old dude to be one of Billy’s biker buddies, but as it turned out, Nick wasn’t into choppers at all. Nick was into sleighs though he didn’t have one with him at the time, choosing instead to ride to the barn with Billy in Billy's pick-up truck. “Howdy Jack,” Billy said. “My friend, Nick, here, needs a favor.”
“What kind of favor?” I hesitantly asked. Years of living around people taught me never to volunteer until I know what I’m in for. I still remember getting stuck pulling that plow for Billy’s grandpa back before I learned to speak English. You see, at the time I literally didn’t know how to say, no.
“Nick needs you to help him deliver presents for Christmas.”
“No can do,” I replied.
“Why not?” Nick asked, speaking for the first time. It was only then I knew Nick knew how to talk.
“No hands,” I answered. “I got no hands so I can’t carry anything.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Nick laughed. “Good one, Jack. But seriously, you don’t need hands to help.”
“I don't?” I asked, still skeptical as to how I might help out with something as important as Christmas.
“No,” Billy replied, “Nick needs a ride for him and his bag full of presents.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked looking at that big fat dude in red with a toy bag as big as a US. Army mess-hall tent. “What makes you think I can travel all over the world with a load like that? Why ol’ Nick here must dress-out at 400 plus and I’m not as young as I used to be. Besides, there must be a ton or more in that tote-sack of his.”
Well, to make a long story shorter, Nick didn’t need me to carry him all over the world, he just needed a ride to Wooley’s house. Seems the spoiled brat was getting so many presents that Nick had to make an extra trip that year and the contract with the Reindeer’s Union was iron clad. To make the reindeer run an unscheduled, extra trip would have caused a strike with the elves joining-in with a sympathy strike.
You wanna know a secret? It's not the reindeer that make Santa's sleigh fly, it's Santa who makes the reindeer fly. You know the world looks like a much nicer place when you're flying around pulling Santa's sleigh.
Next time, I’ll tell you how I saved Thanksgiving at Stewart’s.