Christmas Rant #11 - A Snowball Only Rolls So Far
Definition of Rant: (dialect British) a rousing good time.
On a cold dark night, upon a windswept mountaintop, Jesse, wrapped in a long black cloak, stares down at a burning forest in a deep valley.
“Finally, a decent Christmas bonfire.”
He settles back on a boulder, shaped remarkably like a large throne and muses.
“I wonder what sort of loot I’ll drop when I die…”
With a glance at his current attire he smiles.
“Worn leather armour and a woolen cloak smelling of popcorn at the moment. We really should put the wardrobe entrance somewhere other than behind the concession stand. Kim would throw a fit if we did any more renovation in the main foyer, though.”
For a few minutes he watches the stars move. The wobble of Alpha Centauri seems a bit off, but it’s hard to tell at this distance. He talks to a snowflake landing on his knee.
“It’s been a strange year, no? Here I thought an augmented reality was a uniquely Riggs thing, but then Trump goes and turns it into a political strategy. Always wondered if I missed my calling.”
He pulls his cloak tighter.
“Everything still seems to be on track though. Nothing very far off the rails. Just the usual chaos and hysteria, albeit focused on a new set of problems society will fundamentally fail to solve before declaring some kind of victory and moving on.
“Piratical mercenaries in the world again, fighting the so-called culture wars wherever there’s money to be made.”
He snorts, blowing frost from his nostrils.
“Though the Nazis making a comeback was rather unexpected. You’d think this generation had been well-trained to automatically shoot Nazis. But maybe ‘No-Russian’ got us all a bit confused.”
He spoke to a hawk flying high above him in the thin air.
“When you spend a few decades telling people to go with what feels right, self-love is first and best, and love-making is a biological impulse with no deeper meaning, how is it surprising to see men who harass, women who don’t know the difference between a so-called ‘nice guy’ and a good man, and a society of individuals who rabidly defend an ideology and its associated assemblies.”
He speaks to the valley-wide bonfire.
“You took true love to pieces and made each piece secular, biological, or selfish. So love was left shattered.”
He snorts again.
“You maniacs. You blew it up.”
With one finger he begins to tap out a sort of doo-wop-sha-la-la beat on the arm of his throne-like boulder. Then from within his cloak he pulls a guitar, specially built for the cold, and begins to play a song he heard not too long ago.
“Everything is old in the world,
Except for the baby,
Little baby, ah little baby.
And nothing the sun hasn't seen,
Except for the baby,
Little baby, ah little baby.
And I say child, be my teacher,
Would ya, could ya, baby, yeah?
Little baby, ah little baby.
And everyone is too big to cry,
Except for the baby,
Little baby, ah little baby.
And everyone knows how to lie,
Except for the baby,
Little baby, ah little baby.
So I say child, be my teacher,
Would ya, could ya, baby, yeah?
Little baby, ah little baby.”
His voice is joined by a smaller voice singing backup, the words indistinct.
“So I said, talk to me baby (tahk to me buh-beh),
talk to me baby (tahk to mah buh-beh),
talk to me baby (tahk to mah buh-beh),
talk to me baby (tahk to mah buh-beh),
talk to me baby, tell me everything's alright.
So I say child, be my teacher,
Would ya, could ya, baby yeah?
little baby, ah little baby (doo-wop-saw-da-da-da),
little baby, ah little baby (doo-wop-saw-da-da-da),
little baby, ah little baby (doo-wop-saw-da-da-da),
little baby, ah little baby.”
The guitar vanishes back beneath Jesse’s cloak and he rises from his seat. He turns and smiles at the one-and-a-half-year-old tipping large snowballs down the long slope of the mountain, each one gaining mass until it impacts with the grounds of an immaculate ski-resort were extremely wealthy people are running around convinced they’re being shelled by terrorists. Already a dozen giant snow boulders have made their way to the parking lot, wrecking havoc.
“Time to go, Zeke, put on your skis. Your mother will be upset that I took you out on patrol without a decent hat on your head.”
The child just shrugs and tips the last of his snowballs over the edge, chattering happily as it fairly explodes a Land Rover. His father snaps the little boy’s feet into a set of tiny skis and then picks up his own snowboard. Both toss up parasails into the strengthening breeze where they instantly billow and snap taught.
And you could hear them exclaim, as they whipped out into the night.
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight!”
“Buh-bye!”
Definition of Rant: (dialect British) a rousing good time.
On a cold dark night, upon a windswept mountaintop, Jesse, wrapped in a long black cloak, stares down at a burning forest in a deep valley.
“Finally, a decent Christmas bonfire.”
He settles back on a boulder, shaped remarkably like a large throne and muses.
“I wonder what sort of loot I’ll drop when I die…”
With a glance at his current attire he smiles.
“Worn leather armour and a woolen cloak smelling of popcorn at the moment. We really should put the wardrobe entrance somewhere other than behind the concession stand. Kim would throw a fit if we did any more renovation in the main foyer, though.”
For a few minutes he watches the stars move. The wobble of Alpha Centauri seems a bit off, but it’s hard to tell at this distance. He talks to a snowflake landing on his knee.
“It’s been a strange year, no? Here I thought an augmented reality was a uniquely Riggs thing, but then Trump goes and turns it into a political strategy. Always wondered if I missed my calling.”
He pulls his cloak tighter.
“Everything still seems to be on track though. Nothing very far off the rails. Just the usual chaos and hysteria, albeit focused on a new set of problems society will fundamentally fail to solve before declaring some kind of victory and moving on.
“Piratical mercenaries in the world again, fighting the so-called culture wars wherever there’s money to be made.”
He snorts, blowing frost from his nostrils.
“Though the Nazis making a comeback was rather unexpected. You’d think this generation had been well-trained to automatically shoot Nazis. But maybe ‘No-Russian’ got us all a bit confused.”
He spoke to a hawk flying high above him in the thin air.
“When you spend a few decades telling people to go with what feels right, self-love is first and best, and love-making is a biological impulse with no deeper meaning, how is it surprising to see men who harass, women who don’t know the difference between a so-called ‘nice guy’ and a good man, and a society of individuals who rabidly defend an ideology and its associated assemblies.”
He speaks to the valley-wide bonfire.
“You took true love to pieces and made each piece secular, biological, or selfish. So love was left shattered.”
He snorts again.
“You maniacs. You blew it up.”
With one finger he begins to tap out a sort of doo-wop-sha-la-la beat on the arm of his throne-like boulder. Then from within his cloak he pulls a guitar, specially built for the cold, and begins to play a song he heard not too long ago.
“Everything is old in the world,
Except for the baby,
Little baby, ah little baby.
And nothing the sun hasn't seen,
Except for the baby,
Little baby, ah little baby.
And I say child, be my teacher,
Would ya, could ya, baby, yeah?
Little baby, ah little baby.
And everyone is too big to cry,
Except for the baby,
Little baby, ah little baby.
And everyone knows how to lie,
Except for the baby,
Little baby, ah little baby.
So I say child, be my teacher,
Would ya, could ya, baby, yeah?
Little baby, ah little baby.”
His voice is joined by a smaller voice singing backup, the words indistinct.
“So I said, talk to me baby (tahk to me buh-beh),
talk to me baby (tahk to mah buh-beh),
talk to me baby (tahk to mah buh-beh),
talk to me baby (tahk to mah buh-beh),
talk to me baby, tell me everything's alright.
So I say child, be my teacher,
Would ya, could ya, baby yeah?
little baby, ah little baby (doo-wop-saw-da-da-da),
little baby, ah little baby (doo-wop-saw-da-da-da),
little baby, ah little baby (doo-wop-saw-da-da-da),
little baby, ah little baby.”
The guitar vanishes back beneath Jesse’s cloak and he rises from his seat. He turns and smiles at the one-and-a-half-year-old tipping large snowballs down the long slope of the mountain, each one gaining mass until it impacts with the grounds of an immaculate ski-resort were extremely wealthy people are running around convinced they’re being shelled by terrorists. Already a dozen giant snow boulders have made their way to the parking lot, wrecking havoc.
“Time to go, Zeke, put on your skis. Your mother will be upset that I took you out on patrol without a decent hat on your head.”
The child just shrugs and tips the last of his snowballs over the edge, chattering happily as it fairly explodes a Land Rover. His father snaps the little boy’s feet into a set of tiny skis and then picks up his own snowboard. Both toss up parasails into the strengthening breeze where they instantly billow and snap taught.
And you could hear them exclaim, as they whipped out into the night.
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight!”
“Buh-bye!”