The True Meaning of Christmas, Robot Dinosaurs, Designated Drivers and Julekaga

It's Friday again. Time for me to come up with another 250 words for this column.

There really hasn't been all that much going on in Loonfoot Falls, apart from people going half-crazy, trying to get ready for Christmas. Which, now that I think of it, should be good for twenty dozen words plus ten.

Of course, there's that tired old "and the true meaning of Christmas is" thing: generally something about feeling all warm and fuzzy all over. Sort of like my cousin George. He's the one who looks like he's wearing a sweater, when he takes off his shirt.

Or, there's being indignant about the crass commercialization of Christmas. Problem is, I really like seeing row after row of glittering ornaments on the store shelves, and suspect that most people do. Hey, somebody's buying that stuff. I don't do "indignant" all that well, anyway.

Then there are those weird robot-dinosaur toys. You've seen the ads. They don't exactly have artificial intelligence, but they move around. And one squirts water. The kids would love them: but I'm not so sure about the parents.

Of course, I could jump ahead and do a public service message about having a designated driver if you're out making an idiot of yourself on New Year's Eve. That's actually a good idea. The designated driver part, I mean.

Or, I could write about Julekake: pronounced "yuleh-kaga," for those of you who don't live near Norvegians, don't cha know. But I've run out of room.