elcome to the Reindeer Lounge on Christmas Eve night -- Whoo-hoo!

My name is Frosty the Snowman, and I'll be letting Rudolph join in all the reindeer games until 11:55 tonight. Then we've got to exit stage right because I'm told that Santa Claus will be (and I quote) 'comin' down the chimney down' at midnight with a little token of his appreciation for the lounge staff in consideration of their fine work during 2008. And I don't mean lumps of coal either.


Speaking of which, I hope that someone's going to put out that rather vigorously blazing fire there before the time comes.




That's right: Awww! Haven't Randy, Susan, and the gang done a swell job this year of keeping everybody comfortably tipsy without at the same time catering irresponsibly to the suicidal overindulgence of the lush?



Oh, I'm sorry: I didn't realize that the lush in question was actually here tonight at table 7: Sorry about that, Lola -- Never mind me, old girl: you give the place character with your inordinate tippling. Are you kidding? We couldn't survive without you, any more than Mayberry could have gotten by without Otis, the town drunk.



I don't know if you guys know this, but Lola was a showgirl here in her prime.



No, seriously, seriously. Of course that was 20 years ago, when we used to have a show.



I kid you not: She used to merengue and do the cha-cha -- then one day, without notice, we had to turn the joint into a family place at the rather vehement insistence of MRS. Santa Claus ... and then, no more Lola!



Quick, another drink for our official lush before she sobers up: It would ruin my eulogy if she were to come out of character while I was making it.



But like I says: Frosty the Snowman at your service.



For those of you who don't know me, I'm a jolly happy soul --



At least I WAS jolly and happy until I saw that documentary last night on Sixty Minutes. Did you guys know that the coal companies are leveling the mountaintops in West Virginia in order to get at the coal that they contain?



I kid you not: They've already flattened over 400 mountaintops in the southern portion of the (ahem ahem) MOUNTAIN state!



But don't worry: I'm not going to get off topic this evening by riffing on the admittedly depressing subject of this so-called mountaintop removal mining (I don't care HOW patently offensive the practice may be to right-thinking citizens such as you and I!)



Still, can you believe it? They blow the bloody mountaintops to kingdom come in order to extract coal at the cheapest possible price -- and while using the fewest number of employees, too, I might add! Aye, Arch Coal and Massey Coal: J'accuse!



And this has apparently been going on since the '70s!



Ahem! but I am silent. (The kids are like: "Mommy, when is he going to be funny?")

Oh, I know: How does Good King Wenceslas like his pizza, kids? (You're gonna love this one!)

Anyone?

He likes it... (wait for it, now!)...

deep and crisp and even!



Whoo-hoo!

Okay. And why does Santa go down the chimney?

Any ideas?

Because it SOOTS him! Ha ha!



Oh, I know: What nationality is Santa Claus?

Any guesses?

He's North POLISH, of course! Ha ha!



Grab a fire extinguisher and put me out, folks! Whoo-hoo!



Still, I can't get my mind off of those poor disappearing mountaintops...

Tsk-tsk...

But it's not always easy being environmentally friendly these days. The Sierra Club is now calling on Santa Claus to stop using coal in the Christmas stockings of naughty children, and to settle instead for some sort of as yet unspecified biodegradable substitute. No, seriously: That Jolly Old Elf is under court orders to phase out fossil fuels in his operation by 2025!

I kid you not.

But then I'm one to talk, stood up here with two eyes made out of coal like this.

Well, they took away my corncob pipe a decade ago for health reasons -- I suppose it won't be long before they confiscate my very eyes with a view toward sending the right environmental message to the children, too. That's right: introducing Frosty the Blind Man. I'll need an extra stick for a walking cane. (Not that coal is the best possible substitute for God-given eyes in the first place, of course. I went to get Laser surgery just up the road at North Pole Optometry last year, and the doc told me that they no longer accepted insurance claims for work performed on eyes made out of coal. So you see, the vise is tightening: an old-school Snowman like myself is destined for planned obsolescence.)



Lola, are you getting enough to drink over there? (Suck it up, old girl: We're all counting on you to give the place the proper nostalgic ambience, evocative of the sometimes galling vagaries of the human condition.)



Ha! Lola's over there like: "Did you just call me a galling vagary!?" Well, maybe I did, Lola, but since you clearly have no conception of what such an admittedly ambiguous phrase could possibly mean, I'm not sure that you have any reasonable grounds for complaint!



No, seriously, seriously. Lola McGillicutty, Ladies and Gentlemen, Lush Extraordinaire. Take a vertiginous bow for us, Lola M.! (Easy there, don't fall down, now!)

Sorry, Lola: I'm just trying to keep my mind off of those disappearing mountaintops in southern West Virginia.

Oh, I know: Yo, kids, check this out:

What is the best thing to give your parents for Christmas? (THIS will make the kiddies laugh!)

Answer: A list of everything you want!



Whoo-hoo! Get it, kids? Give your parents a list of everything that you want for Christmas! Ha ha!

Oh, I am hot tonight, folks: Watch out!

Ahem.

It's so sad, though.



Did you know that there used to be 60 families on a certain Kayford Mountain in Southern West Virginia and now the population is down to one defiant soul, a certain hero (yes, HERO!) named Larry Gibson in fact, whose family has lived in those parts since the 1700's.

But I am silent.

I won't say any more about it -- even if Larry's last stand of time-honored mountaintop trees are now surrounded by 12,000 acres of pancake flat terrain, that's still being blasted to this very day, in fact, sending showers of debris raining down on the centuries' old family cemetery.

But... I hold my tongue (or at least I would hold it, if somebody had bothered to give me one in the first place).

Ahem.

I tell you something, though: This is the last time that I watch Sixty Minutes within 24 hours of performing a standup gig. There's no telling WHAT social wrong you're going to be bummed out about on the morning after! And me with a reputation to uphold of being all jolly and happy and stuff.


Lola, lead everybody out the front door so that Santa Claus can get his occupational groove on up in this place tonight. Randy, put out the fire, if you please, sir.


My name is Frosty the Snowman, and I'll be here through New Years' Eve, always providing that Global Warming doesn't send me packing first, of course. (Oh, great, now I'm depressing folks still further!)