Anagrammy Placegetters for December 2017

All the highly-placed anagrams from the December 2017 Anagrammy Awards.

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THE ENTERTAINMENT CATEGORY

1st - Adie Pena with:
TIME's Persons of the Year: The Silence Breakers =
These hero(in)es speak of many terrible secrets!

2nd - View with:
The actress Sophia Loren =
Oh, she's real nice. Top star!

3rd - Tony Crafter with:
'We Three Kings of Orient Are.' =
See trio there for a new King!

THE TOPICAL CATEGORY

1st - Tony Crafter with:
New misconduct allegations against Dustin Hoffman =
Women in angst accuse him of assault and tit-fondling.

2nd - nedesto with:
The snow, sleet, ice and rain =
Winter-coated lanes shine.

3rd - Rosie Perera with:
Trump Will Recognize Jerusalem as Israel’s Capital =
Result: legal maze will spur major anti-peace crisis.

THE PEOPLES NAMES CATEGORY

1st - Meyran Kraus with:
David Laurence Brash =
Led an absurd archive.

2nd - Dharam Khalsa with:
The stand-up comedian and actress Sarah Silverman =
I love the artist's manner, and such deadpan sarcasm!

3rd - David Bourke with:
The American singer and guitarist Thomas Earl Petty =
A rough end...the latest in many a Grim Reaper statistic.

THE MEDIUM LENGTH CATEGORY

1st - Tony Crafter with:
The Top Three Christmas Carols of all Time - Huffington Post
1. Away In A Manger
2. The Holly And The Ivy
3. Ding Dong Merrily On High
=
1. A hymn for that little child sleeping in the hay.
2. A hymn programmed to glorify wild vegetation!
3. The chorus rings of 'Hosanna!'

2nd - Ellie Dent with:
My Fantasy Christmas

A nice big meal and
sharing the irksome dinner chores.
Opening gifts.
An evening trip out to church.
~
Hymns.
Hanging up their stockings.
Search for the stunning tree.
Decorating.
More family visits...

And me on a beach in Capri.

3rd - Rosie Perera with:
I am a victim of one of the great political smear campaigns in the history of our country -- Donald Trump =
My policy: I'd never touch a female's crotch. A proud man of faith -- so marital! -- I am not into groping. It's true!

THE ANAGRAMMY CHALLENGE CATEGORY

1st - Tony Crafter with:
"What's the first thing you'd do if we pretend you could travel back in time?"
=
I'd buy gold, invest with Microsoft, and pocket ready wealth in the future!

2nd - Meyran Kraus with:
"What's the first thing you'd do if we pretend you could travel back in time?" =
I would go buy a ticket and stuff then stop to meet Larry, which I never did.

3rd - Dharam Khalsa with:
"What's the first thing you'd do if we pretend you could travel back in time?"
=
My task? I'd sit down with the Buddha, reflecting on future policy, over tea.

THE LONG CATEGORY

1st - Tony Crafter with:
One day in early September the chief of a Native American tribe was asked by his tribal elders if Christmas was going to be cold or mild.

The chief asked his medicine man, but he'd also lost touch with the signs from the natural world around the Great Lakes. In reality, neither of them had any idea how to predict the impending Christmas, so the chief decided on a modern approach, and rang the National Weather Centre.

'An extremely cold Christmas is looking likely, sir,' the meteorologist told him.

As a result, the chief returned to his tribe and ordered the men to gather in plenty of firewood.

Two weeks later, he rang the Weather Centre for an update.

'Yes, sir, it's still going to be unusually chilly,' they informed him.

As a result of this, the chief went back to his tribe and ordered the men to gather every bit of wood they could find.

A month later he rang the Weather Office again. 'Yes, sir,' he was told, 'this is likely to be one of the coldest Christmases ever known, no question.'

'How can you be so sure?' he asked.

The weatherman replied: 'Because the Native Americans of the Great Lakes are gathering in wood like crazy.'

=

The family were sitting having a cozy Christmas dinner when Rocco, the teenaged son, asked his father, "Dad, how many kinds of boobs are there?"

"Good heavens, what a random question!" the father laughed, then answered, "Well, now, to me there are three kinds of boobs, Rocco.

In her twenties, a woman's boobs are ideal - like choice melons; ripe, firm and well-rounded.

In her thirties and forties they are like pears: still attractive, although drooping a little bit.

After her fifties, they are like onions."

"Onions?" cried Rocco.

"Yep, you see them and they make you cry."

These chauvinistic comments agitated the wife and teenaged daughter so much that the daughter, Chloe, countered: "Mum, how many types of 'willies' are there?"

The mother smiled knowingly and retorted, "Well, Chloe, a man goes through three distinct phases.

In his twenties, his willy is like a noble oak tree: knotty, firm and hard.

Through his thirties and forties, it's a serene birch; lean, flexible and a bit weathered, but acceptable.

After fifty, it's like a Christmas tree."

"A Christmas tree?" giggled Chloe.

"Yes, dead from the root up and the balls are for decoration only."

2nd - Ellie Dent with:
HOLIDAY ETIQUETTE FOR DOGS

1. Be especially patient with your humans during this time. They may appear to be more stressed-out than usual and
they will appreciate long, comforting dog leans.

2. They may come home with large bags of things they call gifts. Do not assume that all the gifts are yours.

3. Be tolerant if your humans put decorations on you. They seem to get some special kind of pleasure out of seeing
how you look bedecked with fake antlers.

4. They may bring a large tree into the house and set it up in a prominent place and cover it with lights and bright
decorations. Bizarre as this may seem to you, it is an important ritual for your humans, so there are some things you need to know:

Don't pee on the tree.
Don't drink water in the bucket that holds the tree.
Mind your tail when you are near the tree.
If there are packages under the tree, even ones that smell interesting, or even those that have your name label on them, don't feverishly rip them open.
Be safe: do not chew on that cord that runs from the funny-looking hole in the wall to the festive tree.

~

5. Your humans may occasionally like to invite strangers to come visit during the season. These homely parties can be
fun, entertainment - whoopee! - but they also call for some discretion on your part:

Not all strangers appreciate kisses and leans.
Do not eat off the table.
Beg for the appetizing homemade goodies ... in a subtle way.
Be pleasant, even if two to three unknowing thoughtless strangers sit on your leatherette sofa.
Do not drink out of a glass that has been left unattended within your reach.

6. Likewise, your kindhearted humans may take you visiting. Here your manners will also be important:

Observe the quirky rules for trees in other people's houses.
Respect, though tempted not to, the territory of any domesticated animals; the pet Peke, an independent, huffy
cat, that may live together in the house.
Try to tolerate the touchy, the teenage, children there at the home.
Turn on your all-out, smooth doggy charm here.

7: A weighty man with white beard, and with loud laugh may emerge from your fireplace in the middle of the night.
DO NOT BITE HIM!!

3rd - Adie Pena with:
THE TEN COMMANDMENTS

1. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
2. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image
3. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.
4. Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
5. Honour thy father and thy mother.
6. Thou shalt not kill.
7. Thou shalt not commit adultery.
8. Thou shalt not steal.
9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.
10. Thou shalt not covet (thy neighbour's house, wife, servants, animals, or anything else).

=

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF ANAGRAMMING

1. Thou shalt have a humane life and like no other hobby.
2. Thou shalt not shabbily treat THE Awardsmasters.
3. Thou shalt not engage in thy negativity.
4. Remember to nominate the nuggets of others.
5. Honour the Rude rules.
6. Thou shalt not be highly dense.
7. Thou shalt not rehash an oldie.
8. Thou shalt not be moody, apathetic.
9. Thou shalt not nick the work of thy mates.
10. Thou shalt not eventually ask thy relatives to vote for thy noms.

THE SPECIAL CATEGORY

1st - Tony Crafter with:
CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE WORKHOUSE
By
George R. Sims

It is Christmas Day in the workhouse,
And the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table,
For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for — with the rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's!'"
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter it whence it comes!
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
"Great God!" he cries, "but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died!"

The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white;
"Did a pauper refuse the pudding?"
"Could their ears believe aright?"
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said,
"I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:

"Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dark, unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk!" said the workhouse master,
"Or else he's mad and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,
"But only a haunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.

"I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won't be dragged away;
Just let me have the fit out,
It's only on Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey on my burning brain;
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper —
I swear I won't shout again.

"Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend;.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watched the captured beast.
Here's why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.

"Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors —
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above me,
My Nance was killed by you!

'Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish —
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief,
That 'the House' was open to us,
But they wouldn't give 'out relief'.

"I slunk to the filthy alley —
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve —
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.

"Then I told her the house was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
and up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger —
The other would break my heart.'

"All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord and weeping,
Till my lips were salt as brine;
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No' ,
T'he moon shone in at the window,
Set in a wreath of snow.

"Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The faraway look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went.
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.

"And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more.
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore;
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust — I'm famished —
For the love of God!' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'
And the answer came, 'Too late.'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.

"Back through the filthy byways!
Back through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush;
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill.
For there, in the silv'ry moonlight,
My Nance lay, cold and still.

"Up to the blackened ceiling,
The sunken eyes were cast —
I knew on those lips, all bloodless,
My name had been the last;
She called for her absent husband —
O God! had I but known! —
Had called in vain, and, in anguish,
Had died in that den — alone.

"Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
for a loaf of the parish bread;
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life,
You, who would feed us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!"

'There, get ye gone to your dinners,
Don't mind me in the least,
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day."

=

CHRISTMAS DAY AT THE IN-LAWS
(The Naked Runner - A Chilly Epiphany!)

It was Christmas Day at the in-laws
For Murray, his wife and five kids,
With the usual frosty atmosphere
(Festive cheer? Heaven forbid!)
His in-laws never had liked him,
They'd made it clear at the start,
To Murray they gave the cold shoulder,
To their daughter and grandkids, their heart.

The household that moment was chaos,
Young Lenny banged his kiddy-drum,
Henry was playing a trumpet
And Penny was smacking his bum.
Eddy was screaming the house down,
His twin sister doing the same,
Then amid the din, there came a voice,
It was calling Murray's name.

"You've got no job, have you even tried?"
Raged pa-in-law from where he sat,
"You really are an idle sod,
You're lazy, pathetic and fat!"
"Save your breath, Dad," said Murray's wife Pat,
All he knows about is getting fat,
And how to put me up the duff,
He certainly is good at that!"

"I told you to marry that Harold,"
Said Pat's mum with a big sigh,
"He's boss of a local garage,
His prospects are really high!"
Etcetera, etcetera, on and on,
The sniping continued non-stop,
Then, between the turkey and Christmas pud,
Murray finally blew his top...

"Enough!" he shouted, "Oh, Lord! Enough!..."
The room went suddenly silent,
Even the TV paused between ads,
Yes, the shock was that violent.
He drew himself to his full five-foot-three,
And studied the group in the room,
He had to break the shackles to
Be truly free from the gloom.

Off came his vest and then the shirt,
Goodbye to a humdrum life,
Then came the trousers, shoes and socks,
Goodbye to the kids and wife,
His face was steely, hard as stone
When he turned to his parents-in-law,
"And here's to you grumpy sods!" he cried...
As his Y-Fronts fell to the floor.

He fled the room with a yell of "Free!"
Then bounded out the front door,
Although the streets were deep in snow
And the temperature really raw.
With droopy tum and floppy bum,
He doggedly started to run,
And Murray felt a heady thrill,
God, naked was such fun!

All around him the cars were tooting,
But he didn't care because
Murray was on a mission,
Though he didn't quite know what it was!
Mile upon mile he continued,
Until town became countryside,
And the sounds of traffic and people,
Gently began to subside.

He came upon rural woodland,
And ran through the snow-covered trees,
All he could hear was the birdsong
And the crunch of his feet on the leaves.
Then he came to a stile and leaped over,
And landed thigh deep in a field
Of snow but still Murray plunged on,
Determined that he'd never yield...

*
Cherry Gardner was wealthy and powerful,
A feisty and tough CEO,
She'd blazed to the top of the Company tree,
And now there was nowhere to go.
She was trapped in an unhappy marriage
And money deals had been her life,
But now all she wanted was children,
And simply to be a housewife.

Her husband laughed, "Cherry, you're kidding!
You hate me and I don't like you,
As partners we're good, we make money,
But have kids? That's a thing I'll not do!
You're stuck with me, I can't divorce you,
For that wouldn't make business sense,
We made an empire together,
I declare, sometimes Cherry you're dense!"

At a board meeting one Thursday morning,
Cherry Gardner at last saw the light,
As the money men droned about profits,
She got up and cried, "It's not right!
It's Christmas Day, why are we working?
I know it's what we always do,
Hell, life is about being happy,
And not who is richer than who!

"I know that it gives an advantage,
To work while the rest are at home,
But wouldn't you rather be there with your kids?"
In shock, all the others cried... "No!"
"Right, I've had enough!" cried Cherry,
All this company talk is just trash
Then she ripped off her blouse and she yelled:
"It's freedom I yearn for, not cash!"

Then off came her bra, her pencil skirt,
Her knickers and tights followed soon,
Her shoes went out of the window,
Then Cherry fled from the boardroom.
Cars screeched to a halt as she ran through
The street where she'd worked many years,
And a snowflake landed on her face,
And melted into her tears.

They were tears of happiness rather than gloom,
Happiness at being free,
She'd cast off her shackles along with her clothes,
And was crying with unhampered glee.
As the fading footsteps of her past,
Were covered by thick falling snow,
She left the grimy city behind
To venture into the unknown.

Though physically tired, she ran for miles,
Her spirits were on a high,
Through snow-capped forest into a field,
As the moon rose in a dark sky.
Through sleet-peppered eyes she peered ahead,
As something came into her view;
'Is that a person I can see?
And is that person nude?'

They stopped and regarded each other,
In open-mouthed, icy surprise,
Neither one had a stitch on,
And neither believed their eyes!
"Hello, I'm Murray," said the man,
I'm broke and have no ambition.
The only thing that I can do
Is make babies in any position.

"I've cast off the shackles of drudgery
And all my garments are gone,
I'm small and dumpy, I know that,
But I'm cuddly and I am fun."
"Hello," she said, "I'm Cherry Gardner,
And I am as wealthy as Trump,
I've had enough of material things,
All I crave is my own baby-bump.

"Murray," she said, "it has to be Fate,
That brought us together tonight.
We each have what the other needs
To rescue us from our plight.
Let's go and make a baby now,
Come, follow me and I shall lead."
And in a barn in a starlit field,
A new life was conceived.

2nd - Meyran Kraus with:
The brain is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side,
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside.

The brain is deeper than the sea,
For, hold them, blue to blue,
The one the other will absorb,
As sponges, buckets do.

The brain is just the weight of God,
For, lift them, pound for pound,
And they will differ, if they do,
As syllable from sound.

[Emily Dickinson]

=

The life you'd build should be the best -
Seek forth the life done right,
Defined by potent newborn joy
Or prominent new heights.

The life you build is compromise -
There's work that doesn't end;
The hardships and the kinder days
Compose a harsher blend.

The life you built was irony
Made flesh, there is no doubt:
The act of building was itself
What life is all about.

3rd - Ellie Dent with:
When you lose
someone you love,
life will change,
you rearrange,
and everything around you
seems so strange.
=
We do feel loss
You're gone.
The never gloomy Scot,
Sunny Aussie guy.
And ever here in anagram
I, we all, honor you.

THE RUDE CATEGORY