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In This Issue

• Christmas Gift to the World: Obama’s Dream Team Cabinet
• ‘Tis the Season for Booze and Folly
• Letter from the FEDitor
• From the Archives - Volume 15, Issue 2
• The Blue and White
• Problems That Only Hipsters Have
• A Special Holiday Message
• This Holiday Season, Eat Your Words with Roasted Chestnuts
• Recession Vacation!
• That Kid.
• The Pros and Cons of Being Chrewish
• Course Descriptions of Classes You Really Don’t Want to Take Next Semester
• The Top Five Ways To Get Laid on Campus
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 24.4

Henry Mortensen

When Uncle Jack Daniels approaches me, with Manischewitz in one hand and an Appletini in the other, I immediately know two things: (1) My uncle has finally burst out of the closet like Clay Aiken in rainbow pants holding his and his oven mittens. And (2) the holidays are near.

For a few families I know, such as the Spears, the Hogans, and the Bollingers, the holidays are a joyous time—a time for incestuous placement of Mistletoe and singing carols like “Cum Oy Ye Pregnant Teenager” and “Dad’s Nuts Roasting On An Open Fire.” But as for the rest of us, I have found that the holidays revolve around one key element that not only brings the family together, but allows them to really revel in the communal spirit of giving: Alcohol. As Cher needs her wig and Lezlo and Sam their precious dildo, so too does the holiday family need alcohol. Just walk into any house during December and you’ll find even the smallest children playing One Shot for Jesus or Dreidal Dreidal Jägerbomb. It’s as fundamental to the holiday season as the Christian tradition of giving alms or the Jewish tradition of giving guilt.

After all, what would a roasted ham (or some brisket) be without Grandma Ruth using the strawberry jam as lipstick while trying to find her boobs and sipping on some crunk-ass hunch punch? I mean, why else would Christians call it “Silent Night” if not for everyone passing out with gingerbread cookies in their mouths, whisky on their breath, and their hands clutching the phone with their finger on the 9? Even Jewish people get tipsy— how else could we repeat those same fucking prayers eight nights in a row? Jesus turned water into wine, so what better way to celebrate His birthday than by getting schwasted off a 1945 Cabernet? I believe the good duke of Bohemia, Saint Wenceslas, said it best:

Good King Wenceslas looked out on the open bar and latkes,
When the snow lay round about, with Santa drinking Vodka.
Brightly shown the ice, the rum-Wish he saw the proof number on it,
For then I saw a dumbass bum, sleeping in his vomit.