Between Will Ferrell in 'Elf' and Vince Vaughn in 'Fred Claus,' I'd say it's safe to assume that the entire realm known as the North Pole is real. Both Vince and Will grew up there and are living, human proof that Santa and his workshop of elves exist. People, Christmas is quickly approaching, and in these last few days before the event, you have to use this widespread knowledge to your advantage!

These little Peeping Toms of the North Pole--otherwise known as "The Elves on the Shelves"--are the best way to keep your household in line this holiday season. The way I see it, you've got some options:

a. Let your husband, kids, whoever, be lured into a false sense of security around these cute little peek-a-boo-ing dolls, completely unaware that those beady little plastic eyes are watching their every move, or...

b. use the scare-them-'til-they-poop-their-pants discipline tactic and tell them that the elves are keeping tabs on them and reporting all naughty deeds directly to Santa--the song lied a bit, the elves make the list and Santa checks it twice.

They don't say mothers have eyes in the back of their heads for nothing. With Santa's little helpers, no secret is safe. Ever. Remember, Santa keeps tabs on you all year long (by way of a video camera embedded in the eyes of The Elf on the Shelf).

Love, Mom

Love, Lengli's Mom

A few weeks before Christmas, in her mailbox Lengli stared,

at a box from her mother marked "for Christmas, with care".

She tore at the package with a childlike rush,

"Mom got me a present, I bet it's just such!"

So was the present, it looked Santa had come,

and thrown up the colors of candy cane gorge one.

"Oh mom, you get credit, you shaped it so well!"

"Tiny presents are perfect for my nun straight from hell!"

Somewhere, in a gingerbread house trimmed with diamonds, is mourning his lost tree.

Oh how I've missed you Overlooked while I was away! Much to tell, much to tell! But before I get into posting about the many wonders I've come across in my Christmas shopping hunts, a tale of nightclub idiocy.

There was a time in my life, once upon a time, when I would go to nightclubs on a weekendly basis, and so when I was asked to work a birthday party at a trendy new spot, I was hesitant, but not opposed. I thought it may be a nice change of scenery. I was wrong, very wrong. At the age of 24, I have had my awakening: my clubbing days are over, they may even be dead. I could make excuses for the disastrous soiree--I could blame my sobriety, the circumstance of being there to work, or my particularly misanthropic mood--but I would be lying to myself and to you. As I stared around me at the glitter, and the mountains of faux leather suffocating the hosts, I could not help but feel out of place, and pale. Boy did I feel pale. I considered sneaking out to Hollywood Tans for a quick spray--I did not want the clubbers to believe a resurrection had occurred--but decided against it. It didn't matter anyway, I was definitely conspicuous, despite my all-black attire.

The plan was to wait it out, get paid my three hours of service for body painting, and possibly slip out early, unnoticed--due to high levels of over-stimulation and short attention spans, not much painting was getting done anyway. And then I heard it, "OMGZ KAREN iz that lyk MONEY on the FLOOR?!", my client caterwauled like a cat in the sexy season. Startled, I looked over at what would, in a minute, lead me to realize that I had outgrown clubs.

The money shower came unexpectedly, and its bizarreness gave me the feeling that motion stalled, just for the duration of the scene, so that I could take in the full experience. Someone in the upstairs portion of the club was peering over the balcony, showering the lower level with one hundred one dollar bills. Men and women, in their best attire, scuttled to grab the money on the floor, in the air, on the Bumpits secured tightly under hair-sprayed pompadours--which, unfortunately for one woman, did result in hair pulling--while they simultaneously stuffed bills into their pockets. It was like something out of a Luis Buñuel film. With their mouths agape and hands outstretched, I could have sworn I was looking at beggars receiving a gift from their king. I would have thought I was dreaming if not for the man or woman who pushed me out of my daze and barked, "Could you grab me those two bucks?"

As I collected my money and left, I stepped past the hordes of people surrounding the girl currently vomiting on herself in the stairwell, and I thought to myself, "my work here is done".

The other day I was browsing through the website for Toomey's, a novelty underwear store, when I came across something that I'd vaguely heard about, but never actually seen: the "panty cap".

Panty Cap

You may ask yourself, "What use have I for such a backwards unmentionable?" I asked myself the same question, and have since been wondering why such a cap is necessary. Of course, as promised, KGB had the answer (and I didn't even have to text them).

Through the brain fart commercials, I have noticed that an increasing number of people have been suffering from "involuntary releases of ignorance" (as KGB terms it). This recent phenomenon of not knowing an answer to a question has sent the world into a panic, and because we have inexplicably forgotten that we can turn to Google, iPhones, or even other more knowledgeable people (like teachers), these brain farts are moving forward with their destruction. By the time I reached the following commercial, I began to see the validity of these strange-looking panty caps, because I can only conclude that the next step after college-level brain farting is nothing short of leakage.

Until KGB can rush to restore you from your stupefaction, please wear your panty cap at all times. I cannot imagine what it would be like if every time we needed an answer, we began to leak ignorance into the street. It would be chaos.

I commend all women who have the ability to dress in scandalous versions of classic Halloween characters; ladies you really spice things up! I, for one, cannot allow myself to do this. Throughout the years, I have noticed a pattern in my Halloween behavior, and that pattern is that I take my Halloween roles very seriously; if I were you Alice in Slutterland, I would surely be in worse shape after consuming that many alco-pops.

Reasons Why I Can't Dress Slutty On Halloween

• Not surprisingly, most of the slutty costumes are made for women who are well endowed. I can't imagine there's much of a market for child-sized pleather dominatrix...well, not a legal one anyway.
• I am a short female with a high pitched voice, pig tails, and a good mask. I've just set myself back 10 years--but unlike my 10 year old self, I cease to be pedophile bait once the mask comes off. What does that mean? I'm going trick or treating! You can't get free candy and look like a slut.
• Last year, I went out on Halloween as a serpent. I went out with my friends. We went to a party. The DJ was dressed as a fly. I licked him several times. Trying to eat him may or may not have happened.

This year I've decided to be Little Bo Reap (the Little Bo Peep that reaps your sheep), and it's a good thing there are not many live sheep in the city, or we may have a problem; scythe in hand, I've already visited three toy shops and robbed a few fluffy souls. I like to think I've been doing them good, considering they'll soon be living with demon children--you should see my brother's poor childhood lamb, or "Lambie" as he was called; the poor thing suffered more torture than a 17th century pagan; if I had been a Bo Reaper back then, I would have taken him good and early.

I like to feel that what I am doing for my stuffed friends is charitable. I am better off reaping sheep, than being a Little Bo Ho--I have a feeling that wouldn't turn out so well.

The list of endangered species is growing, and--as we all know--it is becoming harder (and harder) to get your hands on a good, rare bird. There is a solution to this problem. Although my bird smuggling experience has not spanned seas, I have fallen upon an object that facilitates avian obtainment--and since I love to help my fellow criminal--I've decided to pass my knowledge of this object along to you.

You will succeed in your plight of bird entrapment, but please do not disclose your successes to me. What you wish to do with an endangered animal is not for me to know; my only concern is that you get it. I do not wish to read about your plans of trick teaching, and I do not want a copy of your famous Goosepacho recipe--no matter how yummy it is. Just take the advice below, and you'll have your Goose before you can whisper "bump it."

The "Bumpit"--n. a plastic hairpiece, not to be confused with pump it: to amp up the volume, e.g. "pump it up!"; bump (1): to accidentally hit someone; or bump (2): a soon-to-be celebrity child--was created for style, but soon became the smuggler's golden (or nude-ish colored) ticket. The Bumpit's extended, half-moon shaped band allows you to create a large space between hair and Bumpit, cradling the bird within. A middle head position will provide a front hair mass to sweep over both Bumpit and bird--this will allow you to sneak past any airway security, or zoo personnel.

How you will appear to others.

An Inside View.

I understand that the above bird looks a little anxious. If you are fearful of a bird squawking giveaway, simply slip a tranquilizer in their feeding time crackers, and you're good to go. They'll stay nestled in your Bumpit hair-cave, and you'll get away with your bird-loot. "But is it stylish?", you ask. The Bumpit looks great on all types of hair, and all types of Janes--it's not just for glamorous models. Watch the video below to see how Big Happie Hair can contribute positively to your image, your self-esteem, and your animal heist.

If all goes according to plan, I will make an overly dramatic exit on a holiday--or other day of significance--and ruin it for everybody; then I will resurrect on Halloween--like any proper ghost, ghoul, or member of the undead clan--to scare the bejesus out of little children. But--save for the maggots crawling out of my ears and nostrils--I want to look good when I pull myself out of the grave.

What is the first thing someone sees when you rise from the dead? Your coffin. The coffin is your way of making a first impression, and I want mine to bear upon the urethra. It may also detract attention from the creatures living in my portas--I am sure they will want their privacy. Personally, I think the conception of Creative Coffins is genius.

The makers of Creative Coffins understand that rising from the dead is not a trivial dealing, and that a recurring coffin is like a recurring Minnie Mouse costume: tired and boring. This may be an issue when your coffin is built to last, but not when it is cardboard chic, like all Creative Coffins are--and like each one of my future coffins will be. Now that Creative Coffins are around, each year I will be able to rise with a trendier, scarier, more shocking piece.

Hey, maybe I'll even achieve posthumous fame--another reason why a Salem's lot box just won't do. I am all about rotting with my coffin--not just inside it.

The teen bee, also known as the popular girl, the queen bee, or--when referring to the male equivalent--the jock, is unforgiving, unrelenting, torturous, and fabulous. She is designer goods, and her recipe of glitter, rumors, and blackmail has gotten her to the top of the social ladder, where she and her posse rule the school. Despite her less than appealing personality, you both love her and love to hate her, which is why this diva's status is the most coveted in societeen. Don't cross this bee-otch unless you've got a good plan.

How to Rival Your Teen's Scene

The Breed: Teen Bee: The only thing worse than her inflated self esteem, is her inflatable bra.

• How to Identify: The Teen Bee is a baser mixture of human that consists of a 20:20:60 blend of poly lycra evil. She fakes her look with a never-ending supply of confidence, Prada (designer varies depending upon location), and MAC makeup. If you live in my area, it is likely your teen will have highlights and a fake tan...and will still be sporting this look well after high school. A great way to detect your teen bee is to buy the latest issue of Seventeen magazine and to turn to the "this season's hottest trends" section. Behavior consists of excessive expenditure and/or overt displays of money the bee may or may not have, conceit, and making a part or full time job out of self-promotion. She also enjoys following the trends of popular magazines, mainstream culture, and popular music. Blasting the radio while driving in the car is a must (rolling down windows while doing this is also a must). After all, people need to know she is cool.
• Your Most Effective Weapon: WOMAN'S FLAT OR WEDGED BOOTIE.
• How to Rival: First you must get near the hive. You will do this with gifts that attract teen bees: small bottles of lip gloss, ring pops (diamonds!), or pigskins for the beefriend. Be nice, but subtle. Once you have been invited to the big game or party, you are in. Do not forget the bootie, it is your most important accessory; and, if I have not mentioned it already, the shoe must have a flat or wedged heel (NO STILETTOS). Stiletto heels have boomerang properties, and unless you want to be caught, you will follow my advice. Once you are in the crowd make sure your target is visible--it may be wise to practice on a "My Size Barbie" before the big day--because you've only got one shot. Throw with precision, and knock that teen bee straight off her high horse. If you're especially lucky, the horse will run away, and there will be no way for future teen bees to get atop the social ladder. If you are not that lucky, this process may need to be repeated within a few months.

So, you want to kill every last MoFo in the room? Well, I am here to show you the quickest and easiest way to do it. By giving you this information, I am also giving you top secret Philippine weaponry data, which you must guard carefully--lest the Philippine government discover that we, and everyone else on The Internet, know their secrets. The weapon that I am about to describe to you is superior to all other weapons in terms of killability, concealability, and stealth; it is the Unbreakable Umbrella.

The Unbreakable Umbrella

(Or as I may--affectionately--refer to it: The MoFo Slayer)

This water resistant killing device is worth every bit of the $179.95 you will pay for it. It will allow you to whack your enemy into a coma, and shield you while you're doing the whacking. Not to mention it will shield you on your way to the (soon to be) crime scene.

Do you fear that The MoFo Slayer is only useable during the rainy season? Well put that fear aside. I had similar doubts, and so devised a list of umbrella uses that span the seasons. Here is a sampler: In Autumn, Spring, and Summer, it is easy to shield oneself without suspicion; one can use the umbrella for rain, falling leaves, flowers, sunshine, and, in recent times, meatballs. For our whitest season, the Unbreakable weapon transforms into a snowbrella. Not plausible, you say? In the following video we demonstrate how to take care of anyone who questions the validity of this useage:

My Prediction: It's you, in the coat check room, with the umbrella stick.

It has come to my attention that, in an attempt to detract publicity from money grubbing religious affiliations, a group of kindly atheists have decided to step up and grab some of the heat (and money) with their website Eternal Earth-Bound Pets. Eternal Earth-Bound Pets is a program that (for a modest sum of $110) ensures animals a caring home after their devout owners are raptured. The Eternal Earth-Bounds may slap on an extra $15 for each additional pet, but this is an insignificant price for the assurance that, when you are gone, your furry loved ones will have a home with a confirmed animal loving atheist. If that's not a bargain, then I'm not a flamboyant Billy Goat.

Eternal Earth-Bound Pets is obviously on my scam-dar, but I am going to stop being cynical for a second to congratulate the entrepreneurial atheist who thought of this scheme: congratulations Sir., you get yours. We live in a tough economy, and if you can find an (albeit underhanded) way to make money, then I salute you. Unfortunately you screwed up, and it is my job to expose your screw up here:

• All Dogs Go To Heaven.
• All animals were saved on Noah's Ark (why should the rapture be any different?).
• Man HAS TO BE God's least favorite creation. Man has taken Earth's resources, drunk them in full during an all night bender, and then puked them back up on his Father's shoes; if you think about it, man is like the Elizabeth Stone of the creation family, and if anything is going to get raptured, I'd place my bets on the dog. Which leads me to my suggestion for a much improved Eternal Earth-Bound website called Eternal Earth-Bound Humans.

I wonder if any rich Cocker Spaniels would be willing to pay for this?