New Blogger?

So Blogger claims to be "New and Improved." Strangely enough, I was actually quite pleased to finally see this news. I haven't been using my blogger account for months because of an annoying quirk, so I figured that finally "they" had fixed it.

Sadly, they haven't. Somehow it always seems that the things we figure "they" will take care of are never really taken care of. Perhaps this is precisely because we can only refer to them with the most generic term "they." We have no idea who "they" actually are, so we can't really complain about them to anyone. Nor can we take our business elsewhere, since, for all we know, "they" are the ones running elsewhere too!

I can't write a post which is longer than a certain number of characters (which I have no intention of counting). If I exceed the unknown limit, I get a screwy "DONE" message and the post fails to actually post. For some reason e-mailing my posts frees me from this limit, and I can ramble on for as long as I want. (By the by, this seems to be a universal feature of e-mail judging by the incredibly long and tedious messages people are wont to send. Except the folks promising to enlarge, um, "it" for me. These messages are usually very terse. Ironic.)

Anyway, multiple e-mails exchanged with Blogger help got me nowhere. "They" never seemed to understand what I was telling them, or they simply chose to ignore it, sending me advice on topics that were at best only tangentially related to what I was writing about.

Then I realized that I was not, in fact, communicating with a real person. It was an artificial intelligence program, designed to scan messages for key words and then fire back the "best match" from the FAQ database or the Guinness Book of Records. This explains why its advice included tips on the largest pile of AOL installation CD's along with the recommendation that I shove my finger into a USB port really hard while whistling "Mandy.

The Night Before Christmas

Many years ago, a gentleman sat down and wrote a
poem about Christmas. No one seems to know just
who the guy was, but his poem has become a
Christmas tradition, and you have no doubt heard it
enough times to memorize it. I have anyway,
although I still have trouble with the names of
Santa's reindeer that the poem originated.

Let's see, there's Dancer, Prancer, Slasher, Stupid,
Cleanser, Donny, Blitzkrieg, and Vixen, who have
since gone on to achieve solo stardom in the
venison aisle of your local supermarket. (Editor's
note: This is not really true, as most supermarkets
do not carry venison at all.) Their place has been
usurped by Rudolph, a glowing-nosed freak.
(Lawyer's note: He means "differently
luminously-enabled freak".)

This shows how a little updating is necessary now
and again, so I have taken the liberty of giving "The
Night Before Christmas" a more contemporary
flavor (along with about 40 million other hacks):

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through
the mall
There was hustle and bustle in stores one and all.
The stockings weren't selling, it was easy to tell,
Though the pair Santa sported was looking just
swell.
The children were snuggled all snug in their carts
With the last Tickle Me Elmo hugged close to their
hearts.
And Mama in her Reeboks and I in my Nikes
Had just sprinted our lungs out for the last wheel of
cheese.
When out on the common there arose such a clatter,
I turned round in line to see what was the matter.
I elbowed a granny and knocked down a tot
There was no way in hell I would give up my spot.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But some shopping-crazed guy with a plastic
reindeer.
With mall security moving in quick
I knew in a moment he wasn't St. Nick.
His voice how it cracked as he called to the SWAT
team,
And the smile on his face was a lunatic's beam,

"I only want Prancer, not Cupid or Comet,
The one that I have is all covered with vomit.
That's what you get when you shop a huge mall
And it's dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

Like withered leaves 'fore the wild hurricane fly
When they meet with an obstacle mount up to the
sky,
So SWAT team snipers deployed on the roof;
I heard the scraping and pawing of each tiny hoof.

"That reindeer is Santa's, it isn't for sale,"
Said a voice on a bullhorn as kids started to wail.

"He's coming with me, don't try to stop me!"
Things looked pretty bad, when I happened to see

Two of the SWAT guys with blackened-out faces
Crashed through the skylight in separate places.
They didn't look jolly, and I gripped my jelly
As they gave the poor guy a whack in the belly.

"It's all over, folks, you have nothing to fear
Just move along, not much to see here."

And laying a finger 'neath his bloody nose,
With a nod of his head the guy finally rose.
I heard him exclaim ere he was dragged out of sight,
"A commercialized Christmas just cannot be right!"

And as I turned back to wait in the line
The words he had said reverbed in my mind.
You cannot find Christmas for sale in a mall.
It's not about presents, that's not it at all.
And I'll also add this, which you seldom hear
Christmas has nothing to do with reindeer!"