A Christmas Story Story
by Chris Mika 27 July 2005
I know, it's July -- about as geographically far away from Christmas as you can get. Every December the Bumpus hounds of the media push their silly slop pieces about A Christmas Story. I, on the other hand, am breaking out the A Christmas Story Story early, so by the time you get around to reading their articles months from now, their sensationalist reporting will seem as ridiculous as trading Bullfrog for a utility infielder.
And if I seem in imminent danger of overplaying my hand, I have cleverly trapped and devised a backup plot: for it was in the swelter of July when I saw A Christmas Story for the very first time.
As it goes, I was just a youngin' -- old enough to know that you didn't spill out the F-Dash-Dash-Dash Word in front of the Old Man, but not quite old enough to feel up the leg of the Major Award. Me and my brother Joe were staying at Andy and Adam's house, and despite it being a roasty-toasty summer, A Christmas Story was the movie rented for us from the local video store, decades before the advent of Blockbuster and Netflix.
It was around this time I tried Zucchini for the first time. Subsequently, this was also the first time I threw Zucchini into the bush along the fence in Andy's backyard. And as it goes, just now was the first time I've looked up Zucchini in the dictionary, as I did not know how to spell it correctly, just as I didn't know the name of the Lone Ranger's horse, though apparently everybody else does.
"You'll Shoot Your Eye Out" -- any Swede on this side of Cleveland Street can drop that line. "Be Sure to Drink Your Ovaltine" -- maybe, if you're a seasoned vet. I roll with the lesser known "It Was...SOAP POISONING!" Perhaps, over time the world will catch on to that A+++++... Masterpiece.
The popularity of A Christmas Story keeps growing -- quicker than a jack rabbit on a date. At first, it was a cult classic, showing up on TV sporadically. Now there are 24 HR marathons of repeat showings, annual media celebrations, and devoted followings of Triple-Dog Daring enthusiasts. Somewhere along the way, A Christmas Story fell into the American mainstream.
A Christmas Story is the rare movie that ages spectacularly well. When I was younger, I could relate to the trials of Ralphie -- looking out for Randy while scoffing at a bizarre kid wearing an aviator cap and goggles who won't stop smiling at me. As I get older, I tend to enjoy more and more the devotion and understanding of Mrs. and Mr. Parker. Mrs. Parker, with her encouragement of her Little Piggy and triumph over the Special Award. And certainly with Mr. Parker, as it was the Old Man, and not the evil Santa Claus sitting atop the red slide of death, who got Ralphie the official Red Ryder carbine-action 200-range model air rifle.
Maybe one day that'll be me meandering down the stairs in a sleepy daze, rambling out random comments like, "Well, it's a blue ball!" I don't know, we'll see.
One thing I know for sure: Scut Farkus had it coming.
And if I seem in imminent danger of overplaying my hand, I have cleverly trapped and devised a backup plot: for it was in the swelter of July when I saw A Christmas Story for the very first time.
As it goes, I was just a youngin' -- old enough to know that you didn't spill out the F-Dash-Dash-Dash Word in front of the Old Man, but not quite old enough to feel up the leg of the Major Award. Me and my brother Joe were staying at Andy and Adam's house, and despite it being a roasty-toasty summer, A Christmas Story was the movie rented for us from the local video store, decades before the advent of Blockbuster and Netflix.
It was around this time I tried Zucchini for the first time. Subsequently, this was also the first time I threw Zucchini into the bush along the fence in Andy's backyard. And as it goes, just now was the first time I've looked up Zucchini in the dictionary, as I did not know how to spell it correctly, just as I didn't know the name of the Lone Ranger's horse, though apparently everybody else does.
"You'll Shoot Your Eye Out" -- any Swede on this side of Cleveland Street can drop that line. "Be Sure to Drink Your Ovaltine" -- maybe, if you're a seasoned vet. I roll with the lesser known "It Was...SOAP POISONING!" Perhaps, over time the world will catch on to that A+++++... Masterpiece.
The popularity of A Christmas Story keeps growing -- quicker than a jack rabbit on a date. At first, it was a cult classic, showing up on TV sporadically. Now there are 24 HR marathons of repeat showings, annual media celebrations, and devoted followings of Triple-Dog Daring enthusiasts. Somewhere along the way, A Christmas Story fell into the American mainstream.
A Christmas Story is the rare movie that ages spectacularly well. When I was younger, I could relate to the trials of Ralphie -- looking out for Randy while scoffing at a bizarre kid wearing an aviator cap and goggles who won't stop smiling at me. As I get older, I tend to enjoy more and more the devotion and understanding of Mrs. and Mr. Parker. Mrs. Parker, with her encouragement of her Little Piggy and triumph over the Special Award. And certainly with Mr. Parker, as it was the Old Man, and not the evil Santa Claus sitting atop the red slide of death, who got Ralphie the official Red Ryder carbine-action 200-range model air rifle.
Maybe one day that'll be me meandering down the stairs in a sleepy daze, rambling out random comments like, "Well, it's a blue ball!" I don't know, we'll see.
One thing I know for sure: Scut Farkus had it coming.
© ANTICRAFT