Christmas Day is over, the presents are unwrapped and all is quiet on the home front.
Just a few minutes ago Elizabeth and I heard a noise. A prolonged noise. Twice. It's either a snow plow, or we are at war. The fact that there is hardly a skiff of new snow has me wondering if the missiles have been deployed and we are headed into Armageddon.
And then I had the thought: If we are at war, and the missiles have been launched, and the radiation is sifting down, then I better eat all the Christmas candy now, instead of parcelling it out a bit at a time until the new year. Because, as soon as the clock strikes midnight on December 31st (or is it considered January 1st when the clock strikes midnight?) candy must not be consumed, in fact, if I have any in my mouth at that moment, I must spit it out.
Because there might not be a new year, it would be a shame to let all the fudge and little white cookies go to waste. The mutants in the future, sifting through our generation's rubble will come upon the fudge and little white cookies and say, "The people who lived here (and died before New Year's) worshipped fudge and little white cookies and kept them in sacred decorated tins." They will know they are sacred because one of them is a Mary Englebright tin and it says, "Peace." Of course the fudge filled one has a picture of Santa and a reindeer. I don't want them to think I worshipped fudge and little white cookies and Santa, so I guess I better eat the contents, so the mutants-of-the future will not make snarky comments about my religion.
