A CHRISTMAS CAREL

It was just another fabulous Hollywood Christmas party, this time at the home of Jeff Goldblum. I was in the kitchen with Michelle Pfeiffer, snorting lines of something that looked and smelled suspiciously like Comet cleanser, when Leonard Nimoy passed a jewel-encrusted jeroboam my way. Bracing myself, I took a generous swig. Never had I tasted anything quite as delicious as this 20-year-old Vulcan moonshine, and I quickly made myself Leonard’s shadow for the evening. After a few belts, every shred of inhibition fell about me in shards on the carpet. Snatching the karaoke mike from Tony Bennett’s hand, I climbed the Christmas tree and belted out a stirring verse of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” while the machine played the conclusion of “White Christmas.” Grabbing Faye Dunaway by the hand, I led her in a ribald Tarantella, as Leonard beat out a pagan rhythm on Martin Scorsese’s chest. Ordinarily, such behavior would have been frowned upon, but so exhilarated were we by our intergalactic hooch, that our performance dazzled even this crowd of jaded Hollywood veterans, and instead of being frog-marched to the street, we were treated to a standing ovation and cries of “Encore! Encore!” The last thing I remember was Leonard suggesting we check out the scene at Reese Witherspoon’s bash in Sherman Oaks.
At eleven o’clock the next morning, I was awakened by hot, foul breath on my face and a crushing weight on my chest. I slowly opened my scalding eyeballs and waited for them to adjust to the daylight. The closeup visage of a sleeping Great Dane eventually materialized from the fog of my throbbing hangover. Mustering what little strength I had, I pushed the gargantuan hound off of me and wobbled to my feet, leaning on a second Great Dane for support. Where was I? The outdoor pen was filled with the huge mutts. I assumed it was some kind of veterinary kennel, as all of the dogs had taped and splinted ears. But what had happened to Leonard? I scrambled about the kennel, and finally found him snoring sweetly, his head resting in a bowl of kibble. Leonard’s ears were taped and splinted, just like the dogs. They’d gotten him, too! In horror, I reached up to feel veterinary bandages on my own freshly-cropped ears.
With a bit of trouble, I roused Leonard, explaining the situation to him. He suggested our best option was to head for the North Pole and apply for worker’s visas as elves. He then hailed a cab for an appointment at the William Morris Agency. And from the taxi he cried, as it drove out of sight, “MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!”