Which you'll have to be if you want to survive the holiday madness at this time of year. The drivers out there seem to be getting into the spirit of skating on the razor's edge and fighting like rabid animals over the meager few parking spaces available. If you have any items left on your list still unbought, notice how the piped muzak tugs at the guilt-strings of your heart. With any luck, though, at some point you can call it quits and finally cocoon with family and friends and get on with the serious business of celebrating.

We're finally through the worst of it at Raven HQ, and finished the first round of family get-togethers down in Florida. I love to play the "strange uncle" who shows the nephew where to find the "good stuff" on the Net, whilst slipping the lad a few glasses of scotch. Happy holidays, kid.

One gift you don't want to give is an interest payment to the credit-card company. Says here that California banks have successfully fended off pro-consumer legislation that would have required them to print a little chart on your monthly statement showing how long it would take to pay off the balance with minimum payments.

The law was designed to target people who continually make small payments on their credit card balances, which average about $7,000 for the typical American household.

A $5,000 balance, for example, would take 40 years to pay off at a total cost of $16,305, using a 17 percent interest rate and a 2 percent minimum payment.

That's just way too paternalistic and intrusive. I wouldn't want to go to the liquor store and have the clerk check my record and come at me with a line like, "Excuse me, sir, but this is the third bottle of scotch you've bought this month. I'm required to give you this pamphlet on the dangers of alcoholism that includes the telephone numbers of some local drug-abuse counseling programs..."

Danger Christmas

A big problem with the Yuletide machine is all the emphasis on happiness, safety, and wholesome good fun. I don't want that—I want a dangerous Christmas. I want to unwrap a handcrafted Italian side-opening switchblade, I want to run state trooper checkpoints with high blood-alcohol content, I want to overload my home's electrial outlets with multiple 5-way octopus plugs, and put up non-UL outdoor lights fabricated in Mexico. This should be a celebration of life against all odds, where I not only kiss off the old year, but beat the Reaper to boot.

After polishing off a few Irish coffees, I'm planning on using a pair of nunchakus to open the rest of my gifts while Louis Prima blasts out the stereo. There will be high-risk activities! I'll be dodging grounded ornaments—courtesy of the cat brigade—skipping over extension cords—snacking on biscotti, huffing nitrous from cans of Redi-Whip, and laughing maniacally while I spin in circles on the rain-slickened, pine-needle covered deck. When the neighbors spot me out there, screaming, waving around that new switchblade and covered in bright ribbons, they'll tremble and whisper words of comfort to their whimpering children. "Mommy, why is that man yelling about the moon hitting my eye like a pizza?"

Have a Danger Christmas.

12:30:49 PM