In the Name of The Father, The Son and Lek Walensa

It’s like, uh, I missed the strike. In a feat of brilliant timing, worthy of FEMA, my ass was on a plane bound for Chicago the morning of the official shut down. I arrived safely at Midway airport while my fellow NYC commuters walked to work. "Tow that barge, lift that bale!" Nestled in the stinky suburban armpit that is Oak Lawn, IL, I sipped hot tea and watched CNN, MSNBC and any other news-ish programming that featured the MTA striketastrophy.

Scene:
SHANNON blows on gigantic mug of black tea, strokes the fat, white furry ball of the Ennis family’s 90 year-old cat, Dixie. SHANNON sympathetically tilts her head and says, “Damn. Sucks to be them.”

My Mom asked me what I would do if I was in NYC during all of the hullabaloo. You see, Chicago, though quite metropolitan, it’s still the Midwest, people. She might have said ruckus or shenanigans. Frankly, I can’t remember on account of the tea that was filled with the spirit of Advent. It was steeped with love and care in anticipation of baby Jesus’ arrival, holy and chock full of good will toward men. Anyway, I have no fucking idea what I would have done. The cold stroll across the bridge? Not a problem. Getting up early so I get to work on time? Shitty, but also no problem. The snag is this: I have no concept of where I live. Show me a map and I’ll show you my tragic flaw. The lay of any land, whether it be your land, my land, is a mystery to me. From California to the New York island, I am fucking lost. Walking to Manhattan would surely require a sherpa or one of those Brat Camp wilderness counselors to help me carry my heavy ipod and spank me should I tarry. Shit, I used to think North was always directly in front of me b/c that was where the compass was supposed to point. (I don’t think I’ve ever held a compass.) But judge not lest ye realize ye’s roots are blond, too.

Back to Mom's query, what would I do? With warmth in my heart, I looked at all the presents under our fake tree, at the Pink Panther ornament that was my father's and another ornament with a photo of my little brother cira 1981 on it. I thought about the cash I blew on shoddy gifts and whether or not "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" would stand the test of time and become a holiday classic like "White Christmas." My resentment toward Santa b/c he never got me the drum set I asked him for year after year after year sprung to mind as well. Then it hit me, and I asked myself the question I used as a punchline. What would Jesus do? Walk to Manhattan on the waters of the Hudson? Come up with a handy Parable? Do some trick involving loaves of bread and a bunch of fish that appear out of thin air? Well, I don’t have any Son of God–given powers, so I figured that my actions should mirror the Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have done unto you.” Hmm...I’d stay the hell home. I'd squat in my cosy Brooklyn brownstone in the event that “the man” would expect me to go to work during the walkout. I’d take a stand in solidarity with my WTU brothers and sisters. I’d watch 'ELLEN' and nap. Wahoo! Divine intervention rocks! How could I possibly support their cause if I was to simply hoof it to the office? That ain’t right. They were trying to show those stingy, arrogant MTA ass faces how devastated this city would be without them. Message relayed! I ain’t walkin’ til “the man” starts talkin’.

Hot Tip From Auntie Shan:
Used wisely, Christian principles combined with a healthy dose of white liberal guilt can get you out of a jam. Do whatever you want as long as you insist that God told you to.

Get It In the Ass

Secret Santa decends upon the New York sales office of Jakks Pacific this evening. It's a day of reckoning. Whoever had me had better have gotten me a butt plug. If not, clearly, no one here really understands me. Or my tight asshole.

I got my Secret Santa some shaving cream. The CVS brand. And some Desitin. In case they decide to shave their ass.

Have a Very Merry Anal Christmas.

Got Coal?

Christmas is the annual review for children aorund the world. Santa takes a look at who's been naughty or nice, and he drops off the gifts accordingly. Parents report to Santa b/c he's the President & C.E.O of The North Pole. Mom and Dad are pee-ons, not even V.P. material. They're like Directors who've held the same title for years and years and will never move up. Still, it's up to them whether or not their little beasts get cool shit or shine-o-la.

There are serious loopholes in this system, though. For example, the whole coal thing is bullshit. No one gets coal, not even a young Ted Bundy. Way back in the day, I noticed that the shitheads, future serial killers, psychopaths and narcisists always got awesome gifts. I presume that's a vital ingredient for making a sumptous shithead. Spoil the kid for no reason, not as a reward for good grades or a chore well done. Kevin Howard is the finest, truest example of one such a human stain. Call him the shithead footprint. He always had wicked wild B-boys style toys. Optimus Prime, man! The Death Star and The Millenium Falcon, he didn't have to pick one or the other. Also in his unworthy possession was every single He-Man and Thunder Cat figure an 11 year-old cocksucker could want! That little fucker went to the Jackson "Victory Tour" despite having strep throat with a fever of 103, the hot blooded douche bag. His parents drove a Saab before anyone knew what a Saab was! My Mom hauled my ass around in a Chrysler E Class. (In its defense, it did have a guy who talked when we needed gas or if we didn't shut the door all the way. "A door is ajar." My brother and I thought we were hilarious when we corrected his snotty Lee Iacoca ass, "No, a door is open!") But no cool gadget could redeem Kevin Howard. This kid was a total dimwit who flunked 4th grade Reading. Everyone clapped if he walked upright for a whole day. When we took a class trip to the Chicago Historical Society, he climbed on top of a bronze statue of Lewis and Clark as though we weren't guests of an instituiton full of artifacts and collections, paintings and custumes. Kevin Howard acted like we were at Lincoln Park Zoo. I'll bet you Mr. and Mrs. Howard went right out and had Xavier Roberts whip up a custom-made Cabbage Patch doll for him, aptly named Silly Billy or some shit like that.

Auntie Shan rules that kids who make the Honor Roll and don't maim a sibling get stuff like bikes, drum sets and leather jackets. Kids who talk back, have shivved a classmate and seem to like President Bush should get all the crap that's been recalled, like pajamas that can't withstand fire, or something stupid spawn will easily choke on.

"Dawson's" Race to Greatness

Playing the “Most Successful Dawson’s Creek Cast Member Game” at home? Some may argue that Michelle Williams lunged into the lead this morning with a Golden Globe nomination for Best Supporting Actress in a Film About Gay Cowboys. Considering the highly regarded nod, her relationship with fellow Globe nominee, Heath Ledger, their bastard infant and her ample post-baby bosom, Katie “Joey Potter” Holmes could be eating Michelle Williams’ wake…if she weren’t Katie Fucking Holmes!
Let's assess, shall we? Michelle Williams is short & fat. Katie Holmes is tall and skinny. BAM! POW! Point for the nice Catholic girl from Ohio! Although fattie and Katie are neck and neck with the child-outta-wedlock bit (you’ll both burn in hell), Holmes’ celebrity prowess doesn't just rest on her high profile romance with Scientologist, psychotropic drug-hater, cultural pin-up bitch, movie star Tom Cruise. The gal is gifted. Unless I’m mistaken, Roeper ‘thumbs upped’ her “Batman Returns” performance. Suck on that National Board of Review, New York Critics Association, Hollywood Foreign Press and The National Society of Film Critics! What do you know anyway? Blockbusters aside, how could Joey (she'll always be Joey to me) possibly top her turn as First Daughter, Samantha Mackenzie, in the underappreciated, box office bomb, “First Daughter”? She brought the myriad tribulations suffered by the fruit of the President’s loins to my front door. Katie, you showed me that the Secret Service is a real bummer when you’re trying to have an authentic college experience. I'm a better person for it. So, step aside Judi Dench, Vanessa Redgrave, Maggie Smith. There’s a new Dame in town! Even if she’s not British, I’ve got a Brokeback Mountainous hunch that a certain Queen E. will soon take notice. Stars like Katie’s shine too brightly for talentless hack bitches like Williams to obscure. Tom Cruise knows it, and soon, so will the world. Then Katie will have her own damn globe.

Must-See TV

James Lipton, as in "The Actor's Studio" James Lipton, is a guest star on Arrested Development this evening. FOX TV, 8:00 p.m. EST. Santa must have read my list!

I'm Going to Rome, Paris and Italy

At the beginning of January, I'll be heading to Hong Kong for a couple of weeks to attend yet another Toy Fair. I ain't never been to no China before. Frankly, I ain't never been to a lot of places. It's starting to look obvious, too. When discussing the impending trip, I find myself saying that I'm going to Tokyo. For anyone who's ever looked at a map or correctly answered a question on JEOPARDY, the error is glaring. The one has nothing to do with the other. It's like saying Paris when you really mean Prague. But as far as I'm concerned, fuck it. Asian is Asian. Hong Kong, Tokyo, what's the difference? It's ignorant and jingoistic and arrogant of me, I know, but I'm an American schmuck. Isn't indifference an intrinsic part of being American? It's certainly our global reputation, though more so now than in years or decades past. These days it's a perfectly acceptable faux pas. If the President of the United States doesn't know the difference between Switzerland and Sweeden (and I have a news story to back up the accusation), why should I give a damn? I'm only following a shitty example of a myopic, not to mention shameful and embarrassing, world view. So, I figure Japan, China, city, continent, peninsula, land mine, gender bomb, whatever. Sushi, dumplings, fried rice, I could care less. It all means I get to ingest copious amounts of soy sauce and retain water. Which is why, as fate and Karma will have it, I'll go to Hong Kong a healthy Amelican Girr, but I'll return with The Bird Flu and die before my 31st birthday b/c what goes around comes around.

Here's a new, provocative bumper sticker idea: TREAD ON ME If I had a car, Id' proudly display it on the ass end of my BMW right next to my other bumper sticker, BUY AMERICAN. That's me alright. Contradictory, righteous, critical, absurd and irreverant all while desperately hoping at least ONE person gets it.

Belated. Period.

This morning I was issued a belated Thank You from a very good friend who I had the pleasure of taking to dinner when I was in Los Angeles last month. She's damn lucky that I don't consider anything officially "belated" until I've gone through a full menstrual cycle. For example, if someone misses my birthday (JANUARY 19th, write it down), and I happen to be ovulating at the time, said idiot is permitted a grace period that expires when I finish my next excruciating ovulation.

Side Note:
Most women experience painful cramps whilst Auntie Flow is in town. In my case, the cramps hardly warrant popping an Advil. However, my cross to bear arrives approximately 2 weeks before Auntie Flow. It's the most intense, sharp pain in my side (right or left, depending on which ovary is producing the egg that month), below my belly button and about 1-2 inches on either side, every 28 days. It hurts so badly that if I were a real pussy about it, I'd say "Ouch" out loud, a lot. I tend to contract my stomach muscles and wince instead. Sometimes it's hard to walk or take deep breaths. It's like my fallopian tube, which for the average woman is the diameter of a pencil, is squeezing a shot put toward my uterus. For 24-36 hours double-fist pain reliever and suffer in the name of Betty Friedan.

This unique feature of The Shan's plumbing had better come in handy should I ever decide to go for the turkey baster, and make a Little Shan. (AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!) But I can't help but feel bad for the breeder ladies out there who could really benefit from an ovulation dectector like mine. Their bodies could tell them, on cue, "Don't have sex now, unless you want to have sex AND a baby. You're ripe as hell, bitch."

Suddenly "Into" World News Tonight

ABC News settled on the youthful anchor team of Elizabeth Vargas and Bob Woodruff to replace the late Peter Jennings as anchor of "World News Tonight."

Shannon loves Elizabeth Vargas. Shannon will now watch ABC news as religiously as possible. When Liz (She asks me to call her that. "My mother is Elizabeth. I'm just Liz," she insists. I abide by her wish, and when she looks away, I call her "Baby Love" under my breath.) reads various and sundry tales of misery that plague the world and our stumbling nation, I won't take it so hard. All I'll see is a pretty TV anchor lady talking to me. I don't really give a rat's ass about what she's actually saying. So when she recites, "The former Sept. 11 commission gave dismal grades Monday to the federal government's efforts to shore up national security and prevent another terror attack on the United States. Meeting for the last time since being appointed by Congress in 2002, commission members gave the government 'more F's than A's' among the 41 grades measuring progress on security recommendations they issued last year," from the teleprompter, I'll feel safe despite the implied threat of security breaches at all nuclear fascilities across the U.S. It's like if Snow White or Wonder Woman informed me that in a recent poll 9 out of 10 Al Qaeda operatives claimed there was a cell in NJ formed for the express purpose of blowing my tits off. Sure, I'm scared, but what a great reason to ask hot babes to hold me until the fear subsides.

You're Not Important

HOT TIP FROM AUNTIE SHAN:

"I'm sorry he/she is on the phone right now, can I take a message," is no longer an acceptable blow-off for some bothersome, low-on-the-totem-pole individual who your boss or co-worker needs to for you to make disappear. The new phrase is, "He/She is on a conference call. I can relay a message." Talking to one person on the phone isn't enough to Raid an executive nuisance. If you're The Blower Offer, these days you must summon a some back-handed, cruel 'tude. It's imperative to hit 'em with the impression that there are an undisclosed number of people who are more important than they are. In addition, do not offer to help them with an open ended offer like, "Can I take a message?" That's going to make you feel obligated and make them feel entitled. Fuck that. Instead, make a simple declaration that you would, if you absolutely had to--but probably won't--play carrier pigeon. Write this down b/c you'll use it again: A question is delivered with a high vocal intonation which signals hope and willingness to serve. But a flat statement kills hope dead. It's like popping a child's balloon for no reason. Remember the SNL faux commercial for some musical, where an average Joe is interviewed outside the theater and says, "I loved it. It was better than 'CATS.' I am going to see it again and again," as though they were sleepwalking? Do it like that. Drone, don't invite. It's a sure fire, Shan-approved guarantee that they won't leave a message. Rather, they'll get the message and go away.

Ooh, I've just had a mean thought! Before you hang up the phone, wish them a Merry Christmas. Give it a Tiny Tim spin, all warm-hearted yet completely insincere. That'll sting like a bitch, and put their self esteem (if they've got any left), in the dumper. If that's not perfect closing line, than I am not half the bitch I wish I was.