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Snowbirds know where he goes but they keep that kind of information to themselves. They ply the old goat with booze so they get first crack at the goodies next Christmas.

I don’t doubt when he jotted down the poem, old Clement was pretty well juiced.

Under the terms of the union contract at Otaco (re: statutory holidays) he shouldn’t have been paid for Christmas at all.

“Look, he’s not talking to some jerk on the other line right now; he’s talking to me… What do you mean it’s the same thing?”