I can't predict the weather, nor tomorrow's NFL scores, but can tell you this. Should you decide to have Christmas dinner at the Rip-u-Off Resort in Slugamuck, Ohio, you'll be served by Phoebe Snootgrooter. It's a certainty.
Every year since invention of the snowflake, Phoebe relinquishes holiday festivities with her family--hubby Cornelius, known to his colleagues as Corny, offspring Hornell, age 16--Horny to his classmates and his sister Floozie, 17, to ply her trades at Rip-u-Off.
On Christmas night, while the Snootgrooters feast on frozen dinners with a "best before November 15th" date, Phoebe is busy serving turkeys to the 500 rurkeys who shell out $150, not including gratuities. Phoebe, diminutive, like Santa's elves, has salt and pepper hair. Actually, it's blonde, but one night she slipped on a banana peel and the condiments went flying.
Festive fun begins the minute you arrive at Rip-u-Off. First, you'll meet doorman Jack Frost, an amicable chap who resembles Hannah Montana in drag. Using a dog sled, Jack manipulates several feet of glare ice on the parking lot, to drag you from your car into the lobby.
A modest man, Jack asks nothing for his efforts, other than a $100 tip. Next, there's reservations clerk Mary Christmas, who escorts you to your table, happily smiling as she accepts your credit card. But Mary's job is no small task.
The reservations book at Rip-u-Off is a veritable "who's who" of North American business. You'll be dining with Sam Scamm, presidet of Sleeze Realty, priding himself on bilking seniors of millions for their homes, while vilifying their relatives when they expose him.
At the next table, meet Matt Moron, CEO of Trashcan Industries, a company specialing in collapsable wheelchairs for the disabled. (Matt was honored as "businessperson of the year" in his hometown of Poopsville, Indiana.) Then, there's Scott Schitt, a creative entrepreneur, inventor of a new product for consumers who dream of sexual arousal during nature's call. He named it Sex Lax.
To ensure security for guests, a firing squad is always on call at Rip-u-Off. It is mobilized only in the event of (a) nuclear attack or (b) anyone is caught smoking on resort property. Phoebe prances from table to table, refilling coffee cups, occasionally breaking into song--a joyous Christmas melody, which is met with overwhelming approval from the famished diners.
"Have a very hairy Christmas, it's the
booze bash of the year. Say hello to
geeks you know, as they get drunk on
The lavatory at Rip-u-Off is spacious and spotless--often utilized by pompous bigwigs who admire themselves in the toilet bowl, depositing fragrant souvenirs before returning to the salad bar. Phoebe and I have always had a special relaltionship and every December 25th at 9:24 p.m. acknowledge the festive season with an intellectually stimulating conversation.
Me--I'm happy to see you, Phoebe
Phoebe--Happy to see you too.
Me--I hate the snow.
Phoebe--I love the snow.
Me--Merry Christmas, Phoebe.
Phoebe--Want another coffee.
Phoebe has deep pockets in her uniform--a must to accommodate the generous tips from her well heeled clients. She's in the Christmas spirit--allocating the excess funding to buy a portable potty for the Snootgrooters cottage on nearby Lake Stench.
While mom toils at Rip-u-Off, Corny, Horny and Floozie plan exciting holiday activties. While Corny plays ring toss with a beer bottle, Horny and Floozie enjoy a well earned break from school Model students, Horny earned an "A" in sex education at Slugamuck Secondary School from teacher Spiro Sperm.
Floozie is no slouch either! Proficient in athletcis, she was named captain of the grade twelve girls mud wrestling club. After school, she supplements the family's income by working at a Slugamuck fish processing plant, counting hooks. Yes, Floozie is a great little hooker.
Boxing day at the Snootgrooters is an exciting occasion! Horny plans to don his boxing gloves and floor the neighborhood bully, Brian Bitchie. One enormous punch and Brian's teeth are scattered across four states and two territories. Meanwhile, back at Rip-u-Off, the hubbub is subsiding.
After dinner, sit back, relax and savour the farts and other assorted stinks emanating from the main foyer, adjacent to the dessert bar. Now, it's Phoebe's turn to indulge. Five servings, two glasses of wine disappear in miliseconds. As the restaurant closes, Phoebe skates to her frozen car. She drives home, riding the engine bareback, the fuel tank empty, powered by her own natural gas.
The Rip-u-Off resort is a mere two hours flight from almost anywhere on Pacific Worstern Airlines.
Don't miss it.