This morning while realizing my continuing dream of becoming the best darned translator I can be, I came upon a few sentences that had me all ablush. The problem was related to an abbreviated word for which I did not know the actual term. I called the company to find out how to translate the two-letter abbreviation, but they instructed me to just leave it as it is. I mentioned the meaning might be lost in English, but they assured me there would be no confusion. Very well, then. Here is what the employees of company X will be reading in their next in-house newsletter:

Unfortunately for us it’s not about value adding, but rather only about BJs. For the company, the importance of a BJ seems to be higher than the person behind the BJ.

Now that’s what I call getting your priorities, uh, straight.

I can see it now: hundreds of employees unable to work because the laugh cramps hurt too much. Either that or the tears obstruct vision. I just hope company X doesn’t hold me responsible for the temporary freeze in production.

Our The Typing Chimps beat reporter went to Wales for a little R&R. What he came back with may shock the world. A special report.

Some strange shit

On an unusually chilly, rainy afternoon in a North Wales village, local farmer Gwythyr Jones was surveying his fields when his foot landed in something strange.

“It was shit,” he declared. “I’m sure of it.”

Upon closer inspection, he noticed similar droppings all over his property. But these oddly shaped piles were unlike anything the 63-year-old native had ever seen before.

“They looked like miniature stacks of cannon balls,” the perplexed farmer said, “like the groundhogs were stockpiling weapons.”

Mutant Q-Tips?

That evening at the local pub, Gwythyr mentioned the puzzling pile to his friend and bartender, Llewellyn Llewhellin, who is also the town mayor.

“I thought he was just spinning one of his yarns again,” Llewellyn confided. “I told Gwythyr to stop talking shit, but once he’s got a fourth pint in him, there’s no shutting him up.”

The very next day, however, while walking to the town hall, which also serves as his living room, Llewellyn thought he saw something outside his window, “Like a cotton ball with legs and eyes and ears and a tail,” he described. “And a neck.”

Was he seeing things? “Impossible,” he insisted. “I’d only had one beer that morning on account of my official duties. There was something out there, for sure.”

No threat to garden gnomes

Concerned it might be garden gnome thieves from the neighboring village in disguise, Llewellyn ran outside to stop them. “All I had was a bottle opener in my hand,” he recounted, “but I was prepared to use it.”

Fortunately, Llewellyn didn’t need to. By the time he had closed his bathrobe and opened the door, whatever he’d seen was gone. “And the gnomes were just as I left them the night before,” he added, clearly relieved.

Women’s hosiery not what it used to be

As the days and weeks passed from those initial encounters, Mayor Llewhellin received increasingly disturbing reports from concerned citizens about strange sightings and curious findings around the town. “It got so bad, I’d have taken the phone off the hook… if I’d had one,” he complained at the pub one evening.

Soon it seemed everyone had a story to tell about the phantom visitor. Accounts and descriptions varied widely. Some said it ran. Others claimed it walked. Yet a third group asserted that the figure stood. With little consensus among the residents of the once close-knit village, a run began to appear in the silk stocking of the community – a very nasty run, indeed.

“Wednesday nights used to be Connect Four night at home for my husband and me,” said one local woman. “Until I found out he’s a ‘stander’,” referring to an unpopular theory about the creature. “Personally, I’m a ‘walker’. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a stander,” The couple still plays Connect Four on Wednesdays, she said, “but now we do it alone, in separate rooms.”

Mystery, thy name is…

One thing, however, that just about everyone agreed on, was the name, which was introduced only recently. No one knows for sure who coined the term, but it caught on quickly.

“We call it, ‘Sheep’,” the mayor said.

Already the town is a-buzz with the new catchword. And some of its more enterprising residents are even starting to cash in on the latest craze.

“I wrote a poem about Sheep,” said one local artist. “And Mayor Llewhellin said I can read it at the pub for tips until they get the jukebox fixed.”

There is also “Sheep Nite” at the bingo parlor, where, instead of yelling “bingo” on a winning card, “you yell ‘Sheep!’” explains one regular player. Clearly this village is caught up in ‘Sheep fever’.

But no matter what you call it – Sheep, phantom, creature – one thing has not changed: Nobody can say for sure they have seen it.

Wool pulled over their eyes?

Back on his farm, Gwythyr Jones still walks his fields every day as he’s always done. He’s had enough of the tall tales and sheep talk, which has consumed the village like a plague.

“Let them have their fun,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Those idiots need something to occupy them.”

And Gwythyr?

“I’ve got better things to do,” he said cryptically. When pressed for more details, the old farmer’s brow furrowed as he gave one of the dung piles a troubled look. “Them groundhogs.” He lowered his voice, as if someone might overhear him in this barren, sprawling field.

“They’re up to something.”

*Update*: The Typing Chimps has just received this grainy, unfocused image of the alleged “Sheep” (circled in red with arrow) from an anonymous source. Despite its poor quality, it is the best evidence to date of the Sheep’s existence.

In a desperate offensive campaign that in no way is intended to silence those who wish to get to the bottom of possible corruption at the federal level, Bush & Co. are accusing both the New York Times and its whistle blowers of jeopardizing national security by leaking classified information to the terrorists concerning the US government illegally spying on its own citizens.

Combining his superhuman powers of critical thinking, long-term memory and literacy, Glenn Greenwald has uncovered truly shocking evidence of apparent hypocrisy in Our Leader’s unintelligible infallible words. His post here indicates that King George himself has been telling any evildoer within walking distance of an Internet café exactly what tricks we’ve got up our own star-spangled sleeves - and in far greater detail than that meddling NYT. Is it just me or has the paper of record started asking questions again ever since they jettisoned Judy?

Repeat after me, all you red-blooded Patriots: Government good, media bad. Government good, media bad. Governme….

The café I’m sitting in has been unburdened of its Christmas decorations. It is only January 2 but, in my opinion, none too soon to restore the world to its regular brand of madness from the last month of holiday hyper-insanity, insanity that forgot to take its Ritalin. No, I’m not a Scrooge. Yes, I had a tree and decorations in my flat this year. Yes, I was loved and got lots of presents as a child. I like Christmas, much like I enjoy the occasional Jim Carey flick. But I can only watch so much of that guy before I want to stretch those rubbery lips of his over his head, pull his tongue out and wrap it snugly around his neck. Even then I’d still be tempted to stuff a sock in his mouth, just for safe measure.

The holiday season is a peculiar thing, a social experiment in group fantasizing: I’m happy! Everyone else is happy! I like them and they like me! Maintaining this fantasy of universal amicability and benevolence over several weeks is exhausting, toward the end downright excruciating. Simply put, it is unnatural for us to feel… “all Christmasy ‘n’ stuff” on any prolonged basis. Like a method actor we are trained to dig this out from some latent, inner elf; we don’t just act the part, we become the part. But when the curtain falls on the performance, the actor collapses into his chair behind the scenes and begins the messy business of removing the makeup.

And so I find it right and good that the shop owners and city workers are already busy at work, cleaning the face of Dresden at the end of another successful performance. It was, in fact, surprisingly successful for Katrin and me, considering we’d just recently returned from a very sobering, albeit gratifying, two weeks in Israel/Palestine – a trip which will eventually find its way onto this site. Perhaps because of this I found myself overanxious this year to immerse myself in the holiday spirit. We decked the halls, complete with boughs of holly, lit candles and incense and played Vince Guaraldi until the grooves in the CD were worn smooth. Outside it might have been 40 and raining, but goddamit, it was going to be cozy festive at our place.

Catching the yuletide bug was also easier this year for another reason: ever since I first considered the irony of receiving money from my dad so I could buy him a present, thus prompting me to get a job and pay with my own cash, I have never completed my Christmas shopping before December 24, if at all. This year, however, we bought handmade articles from Palestinian craftsmen as gifts for everyone, and so our shopping was finished before we even returned from vacation. For once I was prepared – such a wonderful sense of relief! I still found myself reflex-panicking sometimes when walking past department stores bursting with frantic shoppers – like oversleeping on a Monday and jumping out of bed in a cold sweat until you remember it’s a holiday. No need to panic. I’m finished.

Or so I thought.

Tune in next time to a very special episode of The Typing Chimps when Chris finally learns that a clear and simple understanding between husband and wife about not exchanging X-mas gifts is anything but clear and simple. A tale of joy and hope to warm your hearts.