T. GAMBLE: An auto corrected Christmas wish

So, here we are … Christmas Day, 2014. If all goes as planned the 10-year-old Hurricane boy and 11-year-old Princess girl will have received enough presents to restock an average size Toys R Us. But, times they are a changing, and many of the Princess’s presents will probably involve fancy clothes and — horrors of horrors — maybe even make-up. And we all know what comes after make-up. Boys, that’s what. And I assure you they are not on my Christmas wish list.

It is not just the Princess girl where times are a-changing. The whole darn world is changing so fast I can’t keep up, which, I suppose, should not surprise anyone, as I’ve been about two steps behind most of my life.

By the time I figured out new math, they went and moved into algebra. I bought a car with an eight-track player and they came out with cassettes, then CDs, then iPods and all I have is a giant pile of unplayable music.

Somebody decided it was uncool to actually speak to people and texting took over the world. So now I send friends messages that say “I’m at the hardware store buying a sex screw” after auto correct changes my “hex screw” to sex screw. I won’t even bother to go into the message I tried to text about a duck to Gander Mountain, but it is safe to say the lady working at Gander Mountain still has six months left on her restraining order before I can return there.

I don’t know who invented the auto correct function on cell phones, but I suspect he worked as a Penthouse writer prior to creating auto correct because all my auto corrects come out one step away from me serving time in federal prison. I once sent one of my wife’s friends a text, at an Auburn game, that, in part, was supposed to say, “I’m wearing my favorite pants” as a sign that I had my good luck omen working to guarantee Auburn’s victory. Instead, auto correct sent, “I’m wearing my favorite panties.”

I haven’t seen her friend in almost three years now, come to think of it.

But forget auto correct for a moment. The politically correct crowd is most likely only a year or two away from auto correcting our Christmas traditions.

How much longer can we continue to allow Santa Claus to talk about a “Ho, ho, ho”? You know that is offensive to women everywhere. And what about his size? For God’s sake, the man is a walking heart attack waiting to happen. Is this the message we wish to send to our children? Get him on a diet. Put him on Michelle Obama’s lunchroom diet. That ought to carve about 100 pounds off of him. Quit letting little kids leave him cookies and milk. Leave him broccoli sprouts and carrots instead. I suspect within three or four years he’ll just quit coming completely.

And what about Mrs. Claus? Fat, stay-at-home, smile and accept whatever Mr. Claus does because he is the boss Mrs. Claus. Well that will not do. She needs to talk with Marie Osmond and get on the Slim Fast diet. After all, it has worked for Marie at least six different times I know of. Let her be the head of a giant corporation and Santa can get off his fat you-know-what and start cleaning house, taking care of the reindeer and cooking a little.

The Department of Labor and DFACS also need to take a look at the whole operation, ‘cause I’m not liking what I see with all those elves prancing around. I’m a little suspicious of that famous gleam in the eye of Santa and somebody needs to check that out.

What about PETA? How long can we continue to make these poor reindeer travel around the world? If Santa can afford toys for everyone in the world, then he sure as heck ought to be able to buy a cargo jet.

Oh, well, I’ll enjoy it while I can. I would send a mass text wishing everyone a Merry Christmas but just to be safe better say it now. I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas celebration and God bless each and every one of you.

Email columnist T. Gamble at [email protected].