You Cant Make this stuff up

Tag: writing

  • Real stories from the front lines of business insanity—because you can’t make this stuff up.

    Six months ago, I started a blog sharing the unbelievable stories of our large Catholic family. (If you’re curious, check it out at crazyfamily.blog.)

    Now I’m starting a new series: Crazy Business.

    After 50+ years across corporate America, small business, real estate, consulting, and business brokerage, I’ve seen it all—backstabbing politics, corporate theater, ridiculous “best practices,” and management logic that makes you wonder how companies survive at all.

    Each post will cover a few business themes that might hit a little too close to home for anyone who’s been around the block.

    Let’s start with one of the most universal corporate failures: Meetings.

    The Hidden Cost of Meetings

    Meetings are the most expensive, least productive practice in business. They never show up on a profit-and-loss statement, but they waste more money than bad advertising and broken printers combined.

    Dave Barry summed it up perfectly in his “16 Things It Took Me Over 50 Years to Learn” (immortalized on the wall at Jimmy John’s):

    “If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be meetings.”

    No Random Seating

    There is no such thing as random seating in a meeting.

    The high-ranker sits at the head of the table, flanked by loyal lieutenants—each seat carefully calibrated to “brownie” level. These are long-term, hard-earned spots. It’s easier to get Packers season tickets than to take a brown-noser’s seat at the table.

    At the far end are The Rebels—the ones who question everything:

    “This new plan will never work.”

    “We need more employees.”

    “We deserve more time off.”

    Somewhere in the middle sit the newbies, usually after being chastised for accidentally taking someone’s sacred chair.

    The Staff Meeting

    Here’s how your typical staff meeting begins:

    • Few arrive on time.
    • It never starts—or ends—on time.
    • There’s no agenda.
    • The leader strolls in late, apologizing for “an important call.”

    Then comes the icebreaker:

    “Let’s welcome our new employee. Everyone stand, introduce yourself, give a short overview of your background, how long you’ve been with the company, and your current role.”

    Cue Ralph Hogan:

    “Hi, I’m Ralph. I’ve been married to Jennifer for seven years; we have two kids—Ralphy, six, and Rachel, three. I’ve been with Acme for five years in customer service. This is a great place to work.”

    (Translation: I hate my job. My boss drives me nuts. I’ve been turned down for promotion four times. Rachel was a ‘uh-oh,’ money’s tight, and our marriage is strained. Used up my free EAP counseling and now I’m watching therapy videos on YouTube.)

    Next…

    The Corporate Report

    Here’s the latest from upstairs:

    Sales and profits are down. We all need to “tighten our belts” so wealthy investors can squeeze out another five points of ROI and the C-suite can collect their multimillion-dollar bonuses.

    The cost-cutting plan:

    • Thermostat: no lower than 75° in summer, no higher than 65° in winter. If you’re cold or hot, adjust your wardrobe—but remember the dress code.
    • Christmas party: spouses or significant others (not employees) can attend for $40 per plate in advance, or $48 at the door.
    • Menu: goodbye beef tenderloin and lobster, hello flank steak and tuna casserole.
    • No Christmas bonuses this year. But good news! Each employee will receive an 8-pound margarine-ball turkey from Walmart.
    • Employees are now forbidden to park in the first two rows—reserved for management. And on your way to the lot six blocks away, admire the new stainless-steel enclosure being built for the CEO’s brand-new Mercedes 880 XYZ convertible, arriving today.

    “Any questions?”

    (Silence. Everyone just wants this waste of time to end.)

    HR to the Rescue (Almost)

    Then comes the dreaded line:

    “I’ll now turn it over to HR for the mandatory quarterly Sexual Harassment PowerPoint presentation.”

    Fortunately, the projector won’t work. A 911 page goes out for Hector, the AV tech—who, as luck would have it, is at the dentist for the rest of the day.

    There is a God: the presentation is postponed.

    That night, the guys buy Hector a beer.

    Closing Thought

    And that, my friends, is why the most productive business strategy isn’t another meeting—it’s taking Hector out for that beer.

    Till we “meet” again.

    Next up: The Sales Meeting.

  • My Sheep Dog Screwed up Christmas

    Christmas, Elton, and the Reindeer

    Mom was a Christmas freak.

    I mean all in — hundreds of lights inside and out, two Christmas trees, stockings on the mantel, nonstop holiday music, and relatives telling the same old stories year after year.

    Bobo, our loyal ¾ Collie, ¼ German Shepherd, would roam the house proudly with mistletoe hanging from his collar.

    Back then, nobody told us chocolate was like poison to dogs. Guess it didn’t matter to Bobo. He probably scarfed down a thousand chocolate Santas, Easter eggs, and Halloween candies over the years — and lived to be over 100 in dog years.

    Mom was also a genius when it came to solving the holiday tug-of-war between kids and in-laws. You know the drill: “This year we’re going to my house. Next year is your house.”

    Her solution? She hosted full Christmas celebrations on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Same food, same drinks, same music and gifts.

    If the in-laws claimed Christmas Eve, no problem — you just came to our place Christmas Day. And if they didn’t want either day? Might be time to fold them back into the community.

    Now, any kind of formality was rare in our family — except for Christmas dinners.

    That’s when we dressed to impress: gray slacks, sport coats, winter sweaters, holiday dresses. We’d sip cocktails and nibble hors d’oeuvres in the living room by the roaring fireplace, usually accompanied by a niece or nephew playing carols on the piano after eight years of forced lessons.

    Then we’d move into the dining room for Mom’s traditional beef stroganoff.

    This tradition ran like clockwork — uneventful for 40 straight years — until Elton came along.

    Elton John Rocket Man was my Bouvier des Flandres — a big, shaggy Belgian sheepdog who looked like a cuddly bear.

    The grandkids loved him. They begged, “Can you bring Elton to Christmas dinner?”

    My wife (at the time) shot that idea down fast.

    “Absolutely not. He will screw something up, and it will be my fault.”

    I promised I would keep him downstairs with the kids. No risk, no chaos. She growled, “Fine,” and off we went.

    Things went fine at first. Elton was in the basement, the relatives rolled in, and even Mrs. C — a 98-year-old great-aunt twice removed — made it to her cozy chair next to the fireplace.

    That chair was surrounded by stockings, a nativity scene, and a decorated Styrofoam reindeer that had seen better years.

    Then… it happened. Elton slithered out of the basement like a Christmas ninja, tiptoed down the hall, and peeked into the living room. His eyes locked onto the reindeer. And in a flash, it was game on.

    He bolted behind the sofa, slid behind Mrs. C, and mounted the reindeer like he’d been saving up all year for this moment.

    Mrs. C tapped her cane and muttered, “I think we have a problem over here.”

    It took two of us to drag Elton off that poor reindeer.

    My wife? She practically shot herself through the thermal-pane windows. “We’re going home. Now.”

    I pleaded, “Just let’s get through dinner.”

    I stashed Elton back in the basement and tossed the reindeer into the coat closet. The crisis seemed contained.

    Dinner came and went, and folks were bundling up to leave. Elton was in the foyer as we said our goodbyes. Mrs. C, walker in hand, made her way toward the coat closet.

    And that’s when disaster struck again. Someone opened the closet.

    Elton spotted the reindeer. In a blur, he charged — bowling over poor Mrs. C like a linebacker on a mission. The reindeer didn’t stand a chance. Neither did Mrs. C once again.

    Again it took a team effort to separate the dog from decor.

    My family howled with laughter.

    My wife? Not so much.

    On the way home, I got the speech. You know the one.

    Eventually — like all challenging in-laws — she was folded back into the community.

  • The Humor in Funerals: A Unique Perspective

    The Humor in Funerals: A Unique Perspective

    Over the years, Celebrations of Life have become the norm—and for good reason. Instead of gloomily hovering around a casket, reading flower labels like they’re scorecards, and hearing “Sorry for your loss” a hundred times, we started doing things differently.

    Honestly, I never liked that phrase. Loss? That’s what the bank says when they review your business profit and loss statements and deny your loan. Mom or Dad isn’t a loss—they’re a person.

    The Oddities of Funerals

    The funeral industry has its own language and rituals that can feel absurd if you stop to think about it:

    The Showing: “We’re going to John’s showing” sounds like a movie premiere. The body isn’t a first-run film.

    Guest Books: Has anyone ever later said, “Let’s dig out Aunt Dorothy’s wake book in the attic and review who was there and who should have been there. 

    The Wake: Another misnomer—nobody in a casket is waking up.

    Obituaries: Filled with saintly resumes—“Devoted father, pillar of the community, adored his Cocker Spaniel.” And that line about being “survived by” everyone? If you’re dead, you ain’t surviving anything.

    Embalming 

    Should this be softened a bit? Maybe just Prepping the body for the “showing”?  Aunt Mildred got embalmed this afternoon. Sounds like she passed out at a college keg party. 

    Corpse 

    That doesn’t sound like much of a bucket list goal.  Yea George had a 30 year successful career in Customer Service at Geico and now he’s a corpse. 

    Casket/ Coffin 

    I thought they were the same. A casket is 4 sided box with handles, hinges, fancy tanned , polished metal,  fancy satin sheets, and a lifetime warranty.  A coffin is usually wood, no hinges so got to pop the top for the showing, the handles are for decor only. That could be a bit of a challenge for pall bearers. Sold “as is”.

    No Shoes

    Bodies, corpses, deceased are buried with no shoes.  Apparently after death feet swell and they don’t fit.  Shouldn’t be an issue.  Doubt anyone will be hoofing to the 7/11 for a slurpy.

    Hearse

    Do we really need a $150,000 Cadillac Beast with a police escort for a three-mile drive to the cemetery?  

    Who gets what Stuff

    Before the first shovel hits dirt, the drama begins. Who’s gonna get what?  In our case,  mom, the grandma’s and aunts all had beautiful, expensive jewelry.  The sisters sucked those up like a used Hoover.   

    When  Grandpa died we boys expected a windfall.  Maybe 500 shares of stock. My younger brother had a downpayment on a Silverado  Diesel Duramax. Told the finance manager, after he gets his inheritance he was going to wire the funds and pick it up. 

    Well he got Grandpa’s 25th anniversary watch (with a cracked screen) celebrating 25 years with the family business. Also got a pair of cuff links with grandpas initials. Only money he got after the will was his deposit. 

    Celebrating Life, Our Way

    We learned early that life is too short to be sad all the time.

    When my sister had only a month to live from an incurable lung disease, we threw her a going-away party. Cocktails, dinner, singing, stories, laughter—and no one said “Sorry for your loss.” My brother gave her an urn as a parting gift, and even the priest called it the most incredible sendoff he’d ever witnessed.

    When Dad died, we went off-script again. The hearse made a detour to our family home, and we turned his casket into a bar for champagne, funny stories, songs, and a final rendition of Happy Trails. Funeral staff looked on in shock—but that’s exactly what Dad would have wanted.

    ⸻

    Mom’s Wicker Casket

    Mom was a character, and nothing could honor her like something truly unique. We went casket shopping, but nothing felt right. The cheap ones were tin cans. The Cadillac models? Rustproof and waterproof—but still wrong.

    Then we remembered her love for white wicker furniture. For 50 years, our porch had been full of it. Could we find a wicker casket? My youngest brother found one online, overnight from San Francisco—but it arrived in natural color. Mom would have turned over in her grave. 

    Solution? My sister called auto body shops, claiming she had a “couch” to paint. Measurements were odd, but the painter went along with it. Soon, the shop had photos of Corvettes, Mustangs, and—a pristine white wicker casket.

    The grandkids even created a jingle:

    A tisket, a tasket, Grandma’s buried in a wicker casket.

    It was perfect. Funny, heartfelt, and uniquely Mom.

    ⸻

    The Takeaway

    Funerals don’t have to be gloomy, awkward productions. They can be celebrations of life, laughter, stories, and even a little chaos. Our family learned this the hard way—but the memories? Unforgettable.

    Sometimes, the best sendoff isn’t about tradition. It’s about honoring the person—quirks, humor, and all. And yes, it might include a white wicker casket, champagne, and a song.

  • Memorable Family Legends: The Mischief of Grandpa AD Mac

    Memorable Family Legends: The Mischief of Grandpa AD Mac

    Every family has its legends. Some are remembered for wisdom, some for business success, and some — like my Grandpa AD Mac — are remembered for sheer mischief. He and Grandma Irene built a Michigan bean business, but what really made them unforgettable were the stories. The kind of hilarious family stories that get passed around at reunions until everyone’s laughing so hard they can’t breathe.

    As Grandpa used to say:

    “You kids bring me double happiness — happy when you come, and happy when you go.”

    That line set the tone. Grandpa was quick with a quip, fearless with a prank, and always looking for his next audience.

    Bean Company Promotion

    By day, the Macs ran a fast-growing bean processing business. Their slogan?

    No marketing team, no fancy campaigns — just beans and word of mouth.

    But outside the factory, Grandpa AD’s reputation rested less on beans and more on belly laughs. If you were looking for the best family pranks, you didn’t need YouTube — you just needed Grandpa.

    The Funeral Lady

    Grandpa’s best friend was a small-town funeral director with a peculiar problem. A little old lady had made a habit of scanning the daily obituaries, attending services for people she barely knew, and helping herself to the post-service sandwiches and lemonade. She’d lean into the casket, mutter her usual “I knew him well,” then head for the buffet.

    The funeral director had had enough. Grandpa had a plan.

    They staged a fake wake. Grandpa put on his best suit, climbed into a casket, and waited.

    Sure enough, the lady signed the guest book, dabbed a few tears, and stepped up to the casket. “I knew him well,” she whispered.

    That’s when Grandpa popped straight up like a jack-in-the-box and barked:

    “THE HELL YOU DID!”

    Needless to say, the freeloading stopped. It remains one of the funniest grandpa stories we tell.

    The Hospital Trick

    Pranks weren’t reserved for friends — nurses and doctors got their share too.

    During a hospital stay, Grandpa received his breakfast tray: eggs, ham, toast, and a glass of apple juice. Beside it, the nurse left a sterilized beaker.

    “Mr. McIntyre, enjoy your meal. We’ll need a urine sample.”

    Grandpa ate everything except the juice, which he carefully poured into the beaker.

    When the nurse returned, she smiled.

    “Perfect, thank you.”

    But as she reached for the beaker, Grandpa grabbed it back.

    “Wow, this looks so good, I’m going to run it through twice.”

    The poor nurse nearly fainted. I can only imagine the laughter in the shift-change report. Another classic from our prankster grandpa.

    The Great Denture Swap

    Grandpa’s crowning prank came at the Michigan Bean Association convention, held at a historic resort. These conventions were less about beans and more about drinking, joking, and giving competitors a hard time.

    One night, around 3 a.m., Grandpa slipped the front desk clerk a twenty-dollar bill and borrowed the master key. Room by room, he snuck in and quietly swapped people’s false teeth.

    Morning came. Farmers woke up, reached for their dentures, and panicked. The hangovers didn’t help. Some were convinced they’d had strokes or nerve damage.

    Eventually, suspicions landed on Grandpa — who else could it be? The solution was both practical and hilarious: all the teeth were laid out on the hotel dining room table. Bleary-eyed guests circled the spread, trying them on like mismatched eyeglasses until they found their own.

    It was disgusting. It was ridiculous. And it was pure Grandpa Mac. If you’re looking for the best family pranks of all time, this one deserves a spot on the list.

    Closing Time

    Grandpa had a line for every occasion, including unwanted guests who overstayed their welcome. After hours of listening to stories about 401(k)s, gas mileage, or grandkids who should have been the starting quarterback, he’d glance at Grandma and boom:

    “Irene, we need to go to bed so these people can go home!”

    And just like that, the night was over.

    Legacy of Laughter

    Looking back, what strikes me most is not just the pranks themselves, but what they meant. Grandpa believed laughter was medicine, mischief was an art, and family stories were the glue that held us together.

    His Michigan bean business might have fed the town, but it was his humor that fed the soul. Even today, whenever we tell these funny grandpa stories, the room feels lighter — like Grandpa just pulled another prank and is laughing from the corner.

    In the end, that was his real legacy: joy. And that’s worth more than all the beans in Michigan.

  • Why St. Christopher Got Fired (And Reassigned to Limbo with a Goat Pension)

    With over 500 years of combined Catholic education, our family became familiar with hundreds of saints. But by far, St. Christopher — the patron saint of travelers — was our favorite.

    His medal was firmly clipped to the visor in our 1963 Volkswagen bus, guarding our chaos-filled family road trips. We survived countless outings with no seat belts, no baby seats, and dashboard knobs that looked like medieval weapons.

    Infants laid across seats, kids leaned out windows pumping their arms at semis, hoping for a honk. Our only real “safety system”? A parent’s right arm flinging across the front passenger seat during a sudden stop.

    🚐 Divine Road Trips and VW Chaos

    We thank St. Christopher for helping us make it to A&W Root Beer every Friday night. Dad would pile us in, along with a few neighbor kids, and off we’d go — standing on the seat, heads poking out of the fold-back canvas top, giggling like maniacs.

    One sharp turn? One quick stop?
    Let’s just say, if Dad made those same trips today, he’d be facing 10 to 20 years… with no chance of parole.

    🙏 Who Was St. Christopher?

    If you’re not familiar with the man, Christopher was a tall, strong, good-hearted giant who famously carried travelers (including, allegedly, baby Jesus) across raging rivers.

    For nearly 2,000 years, he was the go-to saint for anyone hitting the road, the sea, or the sky. Pilgrims, sailors, truckers, and your Aunt Marge heading to Atlantic City — all prayed to St. Chris.

    But then came 1969.

    🧾 The Holy HR Department Breaks the News

    That’s when the Heavenly HR Department dropped a bombshell:
    St. Christopher was let go.

    🗂️ The Exit Interview

    The meeting was brief — just Jesus, St. Peter (VP of Operations), and Christopher.

    Jesus:
    “Chris, buddy. You’ve done great work. Really. For 20 centuries you’ve had an impeccable record. Zero accidents during donkey rides in the Judean hills? Impressive.”

    St. Peter:
    “But… with seat belts, airbags, and GPS, your division is, well… obsolete.”

    Jesus:
    “Thanks for your loyal service, but we’re downsizing. No more feast days. No more dashboard gigs. And we need your desk cleared by Pentecost.”

    Christopher:
    “Wait, what?! You’re firing me?”

    Jesus:
    “Not firing. Just… reassigning you to Limbo. Think of it as a peaceful cul-de-sac in the afterlife. Great schools, low taxes.”

    St. Peter:
    “And we’ll continue your pension — two oxen and a goat per month. But you’ll need to sign this NDA. We can’t have the other saints knowing. Morale’s already low since we made St. Valentine cover HR.”

    📜 The Official Reason? “Lack of Evidence”

    According to Vatican records, Christopher was removed due to “lack of historical evidence.”
    Seriously? After 20 centuries of divine service?

    Turns out, he’d already been quietly phased out. His last known miracle? Helping a honeymoon couple in a ’68 Ford Pinto avoid a possum in rural West Virginia.

    🛰️ Why Pray When You’ve Got Waze?

    It’s tough to compete with modern tech. Today, we’ve got GPS, lane assist, emergency braking, and Siri — who’ll gladly reroute you away from rivers or possums.

    Even your dashboard has better spiritual protection than poor St. Chris ever had.

    🐿️ And What About St. Francis?

    Christopher had one final question during the meeting:

    Chris:
    “Why me? I’ve been around longer than Frank of Assisi! That guy just talks to squirrels.”

    St. Peter:
    “Francis is booming. We’re onboarding millions of animals a day — rescues, pets, endangered species. Nobody else wants that department. It smells like wet fur and despair.”

    Jesus:
    “Honestly, we’d love to fire him. But he keeps bringing stray cats to meetings.”

    🏖️ Retirement in Limbo

    So where is St. Christopher now?

    He signed the NDA and moved quietly to Limbo. These days, he:

    • Plays celestial pickleball
    • Leads ghost tours of old highway rest stops
    • Occasionally haunts glove compartments in vintage Winnebagos

    If you spot a St. Christopher medal on someone’s dashboard, now you know:
    It’s a relic from a time when divine roadside assistance meant more than flashing hazard lights and Bluetooth.

    But hey — if your GPS ever leads you into a river, you might still want to whisper a little prayer to Chris. Just in case.

    🏷️ Suggested Tags:

    #StChristopher #CatholicHumor #FamilyRoadTrips #FaithAndFunny #SaintsAndStories #YouCantMakeThisStuffUp

  • Those God Awful Christmas Letters

    🎄 From Our (Slightly Broken) Home to Yours…

    Every year, we get those cheery, glitter-dusted Christmas letters from friends whose kids all got into Ivy League schools, started tech companies from the garage, and won gold at the Junior Olympics. Meanwhile, over here…

    We thought we’d balance things out.

    📬 The 2024 Highlights from the House of Jinny and Bill:

    We love Holiday Traditions but this year’s tree fell over three times. We just left it leaning.

    The Family Minivan: Still running, even after catching fire briefly in July.

    👣 Nancy

    Our eldest got an ingrown toenail that turned into sepsis. Four ER trips later, she’s now banned from pedicures and we’re banned from that urgent care.

    👓 Bill Jr.

    Flunked his GED for the third time. Mystery solved: He couldn’t read the test. His Walmart glasses had been waiting for pickup since February.

    📚 Mike

    Got caught with a Playboy in his backpack. Earned a 5-day suspension. Two local priests kindly offered to “dispose” of the evidence. Suspiciously enthusiastic about it.

    🎖 Sally

    Made the world finals in baton twirling! Unfortunately, her final twirl knocked her out cold. Severe concussion. Now twirls from a seated position.

    💍 Thomas/Thomasina

    Our youngest transitioned this year — now known as Thomasina and married Melanie in June! We’re thrilled. Only odd part? 2024 DNA testing revealed… Thomasina is not biologically ours. So technically, we’re very accepting neighbors.

    🐾 Bobo the Dog

    For the 12th year in a row, got violently ill over the holidays. Possibly from eating 24 marshmallow Santas. No chocolate this year — just melted plastic.

    And no, no one got into Harvard.

    🎁 In Closing…

    We may not have stock portfolios, gold medals, or viral cello prodigies, but we’ve got plenty of laughs (and ER co-pays). From our delightfully dysfunctional family to yours — have a warm, safe, and hopefully uneventful holiday.

    Love,

    Jinny and Bill

  • We Took a 1957 Cadillac Hearse to the Prom…..And Became a Legend

    We were embarrassed to drive to high school in our car.  

    Many had jacked up Nova’s,  GTO’s, V8’s, Hurst Shifters, super sound systems. 

    We roll in driving a light blue 1963 Chevy Biscayne station wagon with absolutely no options.  No power steering, brakes, air.

    Not even a AM radio.  

    Performance?  0-60 in 20 minutes.

    We offered anyone $50 if they could find an option. 

    The Blue Powder Puff

    This was a hand me down from our family business. The bean counter bought the car as cheap as possible right before union negotiations as a symbol that times are tough and would be a challenge agreeing to the requested 10 cent raise. 

    We had no chance of street respect.

    One time a guy in a high performance Camaro asked if we were delivering groceries.

    Another elderly couple asked if we could give them a ride to their assisted living home. 

    Imagine a date asking to turn up the A/C on a hot day and all you could do was roll down the window.

    We couldn’t go 4 years like this. 

    The prom is a month away and we can’t pick up our dates in this blue powder puff.  We had to do something quick.  

    Where could we find a vehicle with character, excellent condition, loaded and cheap? 

    A Hearse??  

    We went to a funeral home and asked where they put their hearses to “rest”. 

    Got a 1957 Cadillac Hearse, 35,000 miles, loaded for $400.  

    We stole a no parking funeral sign and parked right front of the school.  

    It had to have a name “His and Hearse”.  

    We made the prom deadline and 4 couples made the procession. 

    Other adventures with “His and Hearse”

    • Got a black, cheap, corrugated casket.  Put a girl in it, backed up to Burger King, took casket to the counter and asked for a burger and glass of water for our friend. 
    • Got 5 cars and had a funeral procession. When we saw a hitchhiker, the procession pulled over with the guy to get into the hearse.  “I thought this was a funeral” …”It is. Yours” He decided to run. 

    As more kids got their licenses, we needed more vehicles.  

    We added a grey hearse,  “Just Buried” and the girls convinced dad to buy them a 1958 Red Cadillac ambulance. “ Bloody Mary” to drive to St Mary’s Academy.  

    They got stopped for speeding.  Cop found a keg of Budweiser with red food coloring.  Labeled “Bloodweiser”

    Years later, people still talk about these rides. Some went to the prom, others were in caskets at fast food restaurants and 10 were caught drunk on Bloodweiser.

    The legend lives on….

  • My Sheep Dog Screwed up Christmas

    Christmas, Elton, and the Reindeer

    Mom was a Christmas freak.

    I mean all in — hundreds of lights inside and out, two Christmas trees, stockings on the mantel, nonstop holiday music, and relatives telling the same old stories year after year.

    Bobo, our loyal ¾ Collie, ¼ German Shepherd, would roam the house proudly with mistletoe hanging from his collar.

    Back then, nobody told us chocolate was like poison to dogs. Guess it didn’t matter to Bobo. He probably scarfed down a thousand chocolate Santas, Easter eggs, and Halloween candies over the years — and lived to be over 100 in dog years.

    Mom was also a genius when it came to solving the holiday tug-of-war between kids and in-laws. You know the drill: “This year we’re going to my house. Next year is your house.”

    Her solution? She hosted full Christmas celebrations on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Same food, same drinks, same music and gifts.

    If the in-laws claimed Christmas Eve, no problem — you just came to our place Christmas Day. And if they didn’t want either day? Might be time to fold them back into the community.

    Now, any kind of formality was rare in our family — except for Christmas dinners.

    That’s when we dressed to impress: gray slacks, sport coats, winter sweaters, holiday dresses. We’d sip cocktails and nibble hors d’oeuvres in the living room by the roaring fireplace, usually accompanied by a niece or nephew playing carols on the piano after eight years of forced lessons.

    Then we’d move into the dining room for Mom’s traditional beef stroganoff.

    This tradition ran like clockwork — uneventful for 40 straight years — until Elton came along.

    Elton John Rocket Man was my Bouvier des Flandres — a big, shaggy Belgian sheepdog who looked like a cuddly bear.

    The grandkids loved him. They begged, “Can you bring Elton to Christmas dinner?”

    My wife (at the time) shot that idea down fast.

    “Absolutely not. He will screw something up, and it will be my fault.”

    I promised I would keep him downstairs with the kids. No risk, no chaos. She growled, “Fine,” and off we went.

    Things went fine at first. Elton was in the basement, the relatives rolled in, and even Mrs. C — a 98-year-old great-aunt twice removed — made it to her cozy chair next to the fireplace.

    That chair was surrounded by stockings, a nativity scene, and a decorated Styrofoam reindeer that had seen better years.

    Then… it happened. Elton slithered out of the basement like a Christmas ninja, tiptoed down the hall, and peeked into the living room. His eyes locked onto the reindeer. And in a flash, it was game on.

    He bolted behind the sofa, slid behind Mrs. C, and mounted the reindeer like he’d been saving up all year for this moment.

    Mrs. C tapped her cane and muttered, “I think we have a problem over here.”

    It took two of us to drag Elton off that poor reindeer.

    My wife? She practically shot herself through the thermal-pane windows. “We’re going home. Now.”

    I pleaded, “Just let’s get through dinner.”

    I stashed Elton back in the basement and tossed the reindeer into the coat closet. The crisis seemed contained.

    Dinner came and went, and folks were bundling up to leave. Elton was in the foyer as we said our goodbyes. Mrs. C, walker in hand, made her way toward the coat closet.

    And that’s when disaster struck again. Someone opened the closet.

    Elton spotted the reindeer. In a blur, he charged — bowling over poor Mrs. C like a linebacker on a mission. The reindeer didn’t stand a chance. Neither did Mrs. C once again.

    Again it took a team effort to separate the dog from decor.

    My family howled with laughter.

    My wife? Not so much.

    On the way home, I got the speech. You know the one.

    Eventually — like all challenging in-laws — she was folded back into the community.

  • There is a goat on my Corvette!

    A white goat standing atop an orange sports car, with visible wheels and windows.

    The Goat, the Corvette, and the Dumpster Surprise

    Sister Sally’s pride and joy was Cotton Tail, a white rabbit with deep red eyes.

    One Christmas, Brother Bill got a bow and an arrow. He was eager to try it out. He launched an arrow into the sky. It arched over the trees and came down directly into Cotton Tail.

    As you can imagine, this puts a serious damper on the holiday spirit. Sally was devastated for months.

    Mom wanted to ease the pain.
    During a country drive, she found a creative solution: a roadside sign that read “Baby Goats for Sale.”

    Easter was just around the corner. Sally’s basket that year included a real, live baby goat. It was nestled in green plastic grass.

    She named him Sticks.

    We did not know at the time that Sticks would grow into an 85-pound, four-foot-tall wrecking ball. He ate Mom’s petunias. He also had a nasty habit of butting anyone who bent over.

    Fast-forward to a big family party after a college football game.

    I had just bought a brand-new orange Corvette, and we were celebrating hard.

    One of the guests had a few too many scotches and stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. On his way, he looked out the window and froze.

    “Martha… you’re not going to believe this, but there’s a goat standing on an orange Corvette.”

    She followed him to the window. Of course, by the time she looked, Sticks had hopped off.

    “I don’t see a goat,” she said. “Harry, we’re going home.”

    Sadly, a few months later, a pack of dogs killed Sticks.

    Dad spotted him in the yard and called out:

    “Michael, before school, you need to bury that goat.”

    Mike did not want to. But Dad insisted.

    So, Mike found a shortcut.

    He dragged the goat to our old wood-paneled station wagon, tied a rope around its neck, pulled it to the end of the driveway, and hoisted it into the family dumpster.

    “Did you bury the goat?”

    “Yeah, yeah,” Mike said, ready to head to school.

    But just as he was about to leave, the Waste Management guy showed up. He opened the dumpster to toss in some boxes — and froze.

    Inside were four hooves sticking straight up.

    He marched to the door and banged hard. Dad answered.

    “Sir, I have picked up a lot of trash in 20 years. But never a dead goat.”

    Michael! Get that goat out of the dumpster