It is the time of year to wish good cheer and wassail to all Men of Bad Faith. Which means of course Happy Holidays to all my dear Prog Brothers and Sisters.

Since I have ascended to the role of Father Prog Theocritus, I have started to take very seriously the preparations for our Winter Solstice Holiday. It just won't do to go with the flow of the commercialized Christmas. For the Winter Solstice Holiday we need something which is truly proggerific.

To get us in the spirit, I recommend highly a drink that I have created called the Nanski. Since this is a forum for Party Members, I shall give the recipe that I use at the Rancho. If you're giving this drink to hoi polloi, substitute Jim Beam for the real bourbon.

For one serving:

8 oz of Eagle Rare Bourbon. 101 proof.
8 oz of Coke
juice of one lime

Pour over ice, stir, and add mint leaf if desired.

Follow with chaser: 20 mg of hydrocodone.

If you take one of these every hour on the hour, you'll have a wonderful Winter Solstice Holiday, and it won't bother you in the slightest to vote for 2,000 pages of legislation that no one has read, while complaining that a voluntary credit card's terms are too hard to follow.
~
Let me give you the history of the Nanski. Nanski and our Dear Many Titted Empress were over at the Rancho de Rio Grande last month, and both were complaining that they weren't respected enough.

“Hillary, dear; you must know that everyone really loves you. It's just that they get very nervous when your tongue darts out to lick your right tusk. You know, the one that you broke partly off. Why now lick the left tusk? You really are right-tusked, you know.”

I'm never stinting in my hospitality. I've found it's always to my benefit to get those two horrible, grasping, stinking, shrill bitches sterling examples of female progressivism out as fast as possible. That's because they never tell me in advance when they're going to call, and I don't have much time to hide the good stuff. And so that's why I invented the Nanski.

It served to put the guest at ease.

Dear Nanski started to talk, and woke Bruno, who was sleeping off a Streisand binge.

“Theocritus! I thought you shot that goddamned parrot! And look at it! You just took it outside and it came back! There's not room for a homing parrot in this house; I'm a homing queen and that all we have room for.”

“Bruno,” I expostulated, “don't you recognize Comrade Nanski?”

He wrinkled his forehead, which is an expanse of perhaps one inch—he's safe from any conservative proselytizing—and muttered, “Yeah, Nanski, glad to see you. How's your 757 broomstick?”

At this point Nanski broke down and started cawing, er, crying, “Theocritus, what am I supposed to do? I have been as irresponsible as every drunken sailor in every port since the start of the world, and now I can't be any more! I find that the walls of reality are closing in on me.

“What am I do do, Theocritus? What am I to do, Father Prog? I can't stand reality imposing on me. I love to impose my reality on other people, but others' reality on me? I can't take it. And it's so,” here she shuddered enough that were she a dog she'd have dried herself, “responsible.

“And I'm a Democrat!”

I rushed to her aid. “Here, dear, take this.” I put a Nanski in her hand.

“Toss it down. Wait. Let me take the ice out.” I did.

“Toss it down neat.” It was an entire pint of booze and Coke but Nanski had no problem swallowing that; after four thousand pages of unread legislation she can swallow the Jungfrau, giving both pythons and Linda Lovelace a holiday.

“And now,” I continued, “open your mouth and close your eyes.” She did and I popped in the hydrocodone.

“It's your chaser. You'll love it.”

It did the trick. Now Nanski and our MTE each have a Nanski (so special, that synecdoche) every hour and they are never troubled by doubts, cognitive dissonance.

Or thinking.

I, Father Prog Theocritus, recommend the drink highly.

Ahhh, my most highly respected Father Prog...coughs up flem and chokes on his Cuban cigar butt

I will heartily second your recommendation, Theo, (luv the look; so regal) but may I also suggest that you pulverize the hydrocodone and add it to the drink directly? There will be no discernible difference in taste, and your guests won't try to refuse your hospitality. (and, No, I don't mean Nanski or our MTE, because we both know all to well those back-stabbing, dirty hoes, can never refuse you anything! I'm sooo jealous...slaps the nearest prole in the head with his mallet, causing the pitiful creature to crawl away on the floor, bleeding profusely) Oh, and muddle the mint with the fresh squeezed lime. Truly a drink for the Elite, mi amigo! SOMEONE REMOVE THIS STINKIN' TRASH, NOW!

Comrade Theocritus :

Presently it's after five am here here in Arizona , and yours happened to be the first post I read today.

OMG ! " synecdoche " ? Really ?

I'm going to get myself some coffee ( yes, Che......I'm using the the Columbian Supremo ) and ponder this William F. Buckley moment.
However, I enjoyed you mixology lesson and do look forward to mixing myself up a " Nanski " later on....... most likely after I finish reading the news. Perhaps it would be of some use to deaden the pain.

MMMM........coffee.............

The elixir of the narcoleptic and confused.....

Prog Daddy Theo, so glad to hear that you finally stopped crushing those pills to snort them. Swallowing the tablet whole is so much more urbane.

I believe the proper punch recipe follows this rhyme:
one part sour, two parts sweet, three parts strong and four parts weak.

So then your concoction rendered to fill a 10 gallon punch bowl would be 1 gal. lime juice, 2 gal. cola syrup, 3 gal. whiskey and 4 gal. sparkling water.

(if you take the pill first and wait an hour nobody will notice that you used cheap whiskey)

Comrade Whoopie....
You make me feel like I'm back in my Californian socialist college dorm
on a Saturday night.

One of my favorite libations in grad school was Hunch Punch, so named for the inevitable physical reaction upon swallowing.

In a reasonably clean 60 quart Igloo cooler, empty all the liquor in the house. Smash up two bags of ice with a hammer or a bowling ball or that creepy underclassman who snuck in, and dump into the cooler. Taste. Send reasonably sober representative to the store to procure two bottles of EverClear while you slice up half a dozen oranges and lemons. Drop slices in cooler and stir. Taste. Add two packets of any flavor KoolAid, followed by gently glugging both bottles of EverClear into the mix. Stir in two handfulls of sugar by hand.

Serve in disposable 16 oz. cup. Swallow and hunch.

Side effects may include memory loss, excessive salivation, unexpected nudity, and squatting on Bill Treutel's coffee table while reciting "Scots Wha' Hae" before slitting open your palm to become blood brothers with James Sims.

Comrade Ivan Betinov......... you should have your immersion fluid changed out from vodka to "Hunch Punch " in order to celebrate the season with a dash of celebratory bravado!


Winter Solstice State-Sponsored Enlightenment Festival and Gift Exchange

O Father Prog, I have an offering for you in the form of some recent pearls of wisdom by Mark Morford, he of “The Lightworker” infamy.

The first is a Letter to Whiny Young Democrats. I tried and failed to pick out any highlights to speak of, but let me say that one way to sum it up might be, “Don't tell me you WYD's actually fell for all that Lightworker crap?”


The next is yet another letter, titled Dear Tea Party: You Will Now Get Yours.


I read as far as this passage pasted below, and was unable to read further as my vision was blurred by mirth-based lachrymal fluid, accompanied by violent spasms of hooting and howling:

Progressives are just terribly weak in fearmongering. There is something about the liberal spirit that values independent thought and self-determination, that defies screaming eye-glazed megachurch groupthink dread. This makes it tough to hold power for very long. It's so much easier to rally around sameness, conformity, institution, fear of the Other.

I believe the only thing that will calm me down after this is a tall Nanski.

Comrades, I first confess that I erred. I have read Mark Marford's splendid bull; no pope could have done better, and I expect that Mark has a lot experience with thrones, and I know whereof I speak.

But just calling it a Nanski is not enough. This is linguistic pusillanimity. Dear Comradette Nanski is Nanski.

The drink is now here forth known as the Nanski Berlin Wall Banger. Or the Nanski Wallbanger for short.

Che Gourmet, I forgot to tell you something. I already sprinkle the hydrocodone onto the mixture. The pill chaser is a lagniappe.

I do like the idea of muddled mint; I'll try that. Currently I'm experimenting with flaming curls of lemon rind.

Pinkie, I claim you a People's Hero for your unswerving devotion to reading the works of fellow comrades.

This reminds me. Have you found any sort of drug more effective than reglan or haldoperidol at controlling nausea?

Just asking.

Krasnodar, why wouldn't I have Bill Buckley's vocabulary? I stole it. I'm a prog. Hell I'm a made prog. Hell I'm Father Prog. So I stole his vocabulary.

When I was reading National Review in the 70s and later, I made it a point to look up his words. What was that sorry bastard trying to put over on the People? So when he published his last book about words, I read the review and knew all but six; three I had known but had forgotten.

I expect to be denounced for this. This is a low-value target. After all, I have to think and do, and who gets anything? I mean, a good comrade could make more from stealing a single pencil from a blind man, or good health care from 300 million people.

So I contritely apologize.

I think this is wonderful. We finally have our very own Santa Clause and who better than our beloved Theocritus? We're on to something huge here. We now have our own Holiday. Merry Marxmas just rolls off the tongue. This is delightful. May I suggest we set the date for Marxmas to December 21st (the real Winter Solstice) so as not to be confused with that pagan Holiday Christmas.

He's making a list and checking it twice.
Gonna find out who's been Progy and nice.
Father Prog Marxmas is coming to town.

I'll give you a hint. Father Christmas spreads cheer.

Father Prog does not. I wouldn't be a made prog if I didn't make people miserable.

Father Prog spreads holiday guilt, self-hatred and elitism !
( Yeah, I know....there are many, many more.....)

Father Prog Theocritus wrote:I'll give you a hint. Father Christmas spreads cheer.

And Father Prog spreads what? Beer?

What do you guys have against that epitome of Democrat Party, Santa Claus? Does he not give cool stuff to all kids, kids that are equally nice? Of course some are more equally nice than others, but still, there are no naughty kids. Do kids have to pay, or even perform service to Santa Claus to get free stuff? He has even co-opted the churches to help him redistribute free stuff to kids who are less equally rich. And, here is beautiful part (whoa, that phrase makes me think of that most equal BABE, comrade Fraulein), kids' parents have to struggle under bills for next few months, but parents have got revenge with Obamacare and other empty promises of Ear Leader, by making sure their kids' kids' kids' kids will be for paying forever.

Father Prog Theocritus wrote: To get us in the spirit, I recommend highly a drink that I have created called the Nanski.

Ha, talking of Nancy and being "in the drink" reminds me of a joke...(zip it Frau)

I saw Nancy Pelosi fall off of the Golden Gate Bridge into the bay this morning and, being a responsible citizen, I informed the emergency services.

They still haven't responded. I'm beginning to think I've wasted a stamp.

Father Prog Theocritus,

I must ask, where does even a made progressive aquire a capitalist bourgeoise imbibement such as this? Does this not send a message of corporate greed and capitalist excess to the great unwashed masses? Does it damage the respect and equality due to one such as yourself?

Repectfully submitted

GM

Groucho, I take my Eagle Rare in a shorter, squat bottle. It's the prole bottle, you know, so drinking anything from it is just fine. Short and fat and squat. It's the potato- and beet-fed prole bottle.

Never forget to muddle some mint and perhaps a slice of lime. It really adds that certain Equalty je ne sais quoi.

See? La langue d'egualité! De liberté!

And I've had too many Nanskis already this morning. Well, I'm just sorting out the propulsion for my Winter Solstice Eve Slay Ride.

Prole bottle, yes, much harder to knock over when you're drunk.

Father Prog,

Is it appropriate to have a Tammuz Tree [original name before hijacked] to celebrate Winter Solstice?

Of course, but if it's been stolen. Decorate with red balls.

I may ask Red Square if he wants to start an Ask Father Prog forum.

Dear Father Prog:
I'm a diehard atheist; however, I also like to get smashed at, excuse the term, "christmas parties". I hate to drink alone, but like a good committed prog I'm against all Public Displays of Faith (PDF's). As Father Prog, would you say it is enough to mandate that all such parties be renamed "winter solstice appreciation seminars", and any references to a "holy child" be expunged upon pain of imprisonment or death; or should I simply leave a burning "christmas" tree on the lawns of the local "believers" as a subtle message?
What Would Marx Do?

The total eclipse of the moon revealed some new features. Behold the real Man In the Moon:

Czar Squared, I do feel your pain. Let me suggest a good compromise. First of all, there are horrible people who are attacked, without any reason, to the word "Christmas." Pardon me while I spit. [ off actually I'm not a believer and grew up in a sect which didn't recognize Christmas but if they're going to beat on people for Christmas, which is a nice holiday, expect me to beat on them.

You do not want them to get the wind up and perhaps lower their hospitality. After all, you are a made prog and are entitled, nay, required to drink all that you can and eat all you can, as long as you don't pay for it.

So go the Christmas parties. Drink all you can. But to keep your prog sensibilities intact, be sure to spit in the punchbowl just before you leave.

Nothing is more proggish than looking a gift horse in the mouth. Because because we're prog and we're owed because the very act of our crawling out of the primeval ooze up to begin to stand on two legs means that we are somehow worthy.

I recall the conversation that I had with our Many Titted Empress in which she explained how she had crawled up onto the shore out of the Primeval Ooze and learned to stand on two legs, or in her case, two trotters.

This is nothing, however, to the elevation of Nanski, who slithered out of the Primeval Ooze to learn to stand erect on two legs, although when she was erect there was nothing around her which was, and she is a triumph.

She's got an exoskeleton. Either that or her skin is to thick that she can stand erect without a backbone.

I see that I've wandered and blame it on the wassail.

But the point is: if you're a prog, you're a prog all the way, from your first marijuana cigarette to your last dying day...

And that in and of itself, that sense of being owed, of being entitled, is just why we are owed and entitled.

Pardon me, while I go to see if the sun is still shining out my ass. These sunspots are are killing me.

Rasputin! You made me into a moonbat!

Thank you! Thank you! I knew that I was, and I had hoped and aspired to be a moonbat but now I have evidence.

Margaret,

It's not what you think. This is what happens when you eat those Spanish flies.

Margaret, what is the nose on the picture of that bearded woman above? Is that artistic license?

And Margaret, that look of complete and utter contentment and utter contempt in the eyes of the frog is a window deep into my soul.

I am the most thoroughly content prog on earth. As Father Prog I will be able to strew misery all over the world. Santa Clause gives gifts. I take away rights.

Father Prog to the rescue, showing grief, poverty, suspicion and misery all over the world.

Comrade Beneficent Father Something-or-other. ....Wise.......blah, blah, blah Theocritus,

Your domain harkens back to a sort of Progressive "reverse" kingdom of Prester John !

Hark....hark......

Father Prog Theocritus wrote:Margaret, what is the nose on the picture of that bearded woman above? Is that artistic license?

And Margaret, that look of complete and utter contentment and utter contempt in the eyes of the frog is a window deep into my soul.

I am the most thoroughly content prog on earth. As Father Prog I will be able to strew misery all over the world. Santa Clause gives gifts. I take away rights.

Father Prog to the rescue, showing grief, poverty, suspicion and misery all over the world.

Father Prog Theocritus, you know darned well that's your nose, artistically licensed.

Do I look as bored as the Frog King? I hope that I've not lost my zealotry for proggery. But I have to admit--there are times that I just don't want to get up and face another day of back-biring, character assassination, lying, thievery, and whole-sale contempt for the very structure that made me possible.

Is it possible to get worn out fighting the good fight?

I think I'll have to lie down, with a jereboam of Nanski Berlin Wall Bangers. Just to ease the pain of the life of a Made Prog.