I’m just asking for bizarre Google searches with two posts that mention boobs in one day, but I had to throw this up here. Apparently Glenn Beck and Matt Drudge are trying to cause a kerfuffle because they believe Michelle Obama is disgracing America with her slightly-cleavage-revealing attire at a recent state dinner. Before you go assuming she looked like J.Lo in that Versace dress, here’s what FLOTUS wore that has caused the uproar:
Beck said on his radio show: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the first lady with her breasts all smooshed up, I mean, what is that?”
My first thought was, really? Does Glenn Beck even know what the fashions were in the late 18th and early 19th Centuries, back when his heroes, the Founders, were still around? Because seriously, get a look at the racks on some of these first ladies:
I mean, I know it’s not even necessary to bother to point out how ridiculous Glenn Beck is, but geez. C’mon.
I promise I’m not a Grinch. Sure, sure, there were years that I didn’t allow people around me to decorate for Christmas until after December 16, my birthday, because I didn’t want Christmas stealing my thunder, but my mother really started that tradition, so you can hardly blame me for enforcing it. I love putting up a Christmas tree. I spent hours and hours and hours crafting ornaments out of origami last year. I hung up our stockings on Sunday and now can’t stop staring at them. I get excited when eggnog shows up in stores, and I love a chance to make our family’s holiday staple, Russian Tea. And I love Christmas music. Well, most of it.
Sure, there are some weird Christmas songs, including my sister’s favorite, “I want a hippopotamus for Christmas.” But one Christmas song is downright awful. I go out of my way NOT to hear it. I’d probably run screaming out of a store in the midst of holiday shopping if it came on over the loudspeaker. In fact, just this morning as I drove Jon and myself to work, it started playing on the radio and I started yelling, “TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF RIGHT NOW!” I’m pretty sure this song makes little 7 pound 8 ounce baby Jesus cry. And we all know, “little Lord Jesus no crying he makes.” He cries when he hears this song, I’m sure of it. I know I sure do. And crying is really not what I want to do at Christmas, though it usually happens at some point, what with the family dysfunction and all.
This horrible song? You want to know what it is? Ok…
It’s “The Christmas Shoes.” According to Wikipedia, The Christmas Shoes started out as an internet story (aka an email forward), and was adapted into a novel, a song, and a film starring that lady from Father of the Bride and Rob Lowe. I guess the story is sweet enough, if you like a side of sobbing with your Christmas spirit, but it’s about a little poor boy trying to buy his dying mother a pair of shoes for Christmas. One line that keeps getting repeated is “I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight.” The only “meeting Jesus” I want to think about at Christmas is Shepherds and Wise Men meeting BABY Jesus. Not dead people meeting full-grown Jesus. I’d rather hear the entire Chipmunks Christmas album on repeat for 24 hours straight than listen to the world’s saddest Christmas song even once. This is why I’m not, under any circumstances, putting a YouTube video of this song on this post. Look it up at your own risk, and have some tissues handy.
But apparently some folks like their Christmas cheer to be tinged with depression and sadness and guilt. Just check out Glenn Beck’s latest bestseller, a Christmas book called “The Christmas Sweater” about a little boy whose mother DIES IN A FIERY CAR WRECK because the selfish little bastard doesn’t appreciate his hand-knit Christmas sweater. Man, imagine reading that one to your kids on Christmas Eve. YOU BETTER BE GRATEFUL, KIDS, OR MOMMY WILL DIEEEEEEE. Might as well play them “The Christmas Shoes” as a post-bedtime-story lullaby, then wait and see if the little brats dream of visions of sugar plums or wake up screaming in the night. “The Nightmare before Christmas” is less scary and more uplifting than Beck’s storybook or the world’s worst Christmas song.