Donna and Herb are seasonal merrymakers who only come out at Christmastime, like eggnog and that ugly inflatable snowman your neighbors insist on putting up every damn year. They live in an unspecified suburb, but are distinctly American. You might know a couple like Donna and Herb: a clueless husband and wife who diligently send Christmas photos and stupid newsletters to all their friends (whether they want them or not.) Here you’ll find all of Donna and Herb’s holiday greetings from over the years. What’s that? You say you’re not on their list? Don’t worry. Donna will track you down. Until then…you can read all of their joyful tidings over the past 9 years right here:
My goodness, where did the year go? It seems like just yesterday Herb and I were picking out our new Mercury Grand Marquis, and today we returned to the parking lot after seeing “The Nutcracker” to find that it had been stolen. With my entire Celine Dion CD collection in the glove compartment, no less.
Our beautiful kids Bruce and Trish are doing great. We are confident Bruce is going to beat the drug conviction. Such a scientist, cooking up all that meth in the basement. Here I thought he was just playing foosball down there.
Trish is enjoying her glamorous new career as a dancer someplace downtown. Only Uncle Jerry has seen her perform, and was quite enthusiastic with his praise. I never knew he had such a passion for the arts.
For those of you who asked, Janice and I are no longer friends. I guess I underestimated her peanut allergy. I just couldn’t see any harm in offering her my delicious Marshmallow Choco-Nut Nests. (She’s out of the hospital now.)
Our dog Mr. Waggles ran away. He only ran next door to the Thompson’s house, but we can’t seem to get him to come home. I just received their Christmas photo, and it appears they’ve made him a part of the family and changed his name to Clyde.
Note to the Thompsons: Don’t expect an invite to our Eggnog Fest this year.
The lawsuit is going well. But take it from me, the warning is true: “Viagra can result in priapism.” We learned that lesson the hard way.
Note to Wendy: Sorry about Herb’s standing ovation at Kaitlyn’s recital. If only we hadn’t been in the front row.
On the health front, I lost 3 and a half pounds on the Jenny Craig program! Maybe they’ll hire me for their commercials now that Valerie Bertinelli lost all the weight! LOL! 🙂 ROTFL! 🙂 LMAO! 🙂
A warm Seasons Greetings to all of you. And if any of you happen to see Fran, please tell her that it was very tacky to re-gift the adorable ceramic snowman toilet brush holder I gave her two years ago.
Donna and Herb
I’d like to begin our newsletter by apologizing for being so late this year. Due to circumstances beyond our control, our entire Yuletide routine has been delayed. We didn’t even display our Precious Moments Victorian Christmas Village in the rumpus room until November 30th! You won’t believe the rollercoaster Herb and I have been on. It’s a Christmas miracle that we’re alive!
A few months back, Herb and I entered Parade Magazine’s “Crazy Pets” contest. The competition was stiff. But our cat Sniffy playing the tuba won after the all ferret version of “Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)” was disqualified. We were delighted! Herb worked so hard. I don’t know if any of you have ever tried to train your cat to play the tuba, but let me tell you, it takes patience.
NOTE: The video is up on The You Tubes.
Well, the Grand Prize was an all-inclusive cruise to Puerto Vallarta! At first, it was like living in a dream: sunset views on the Lido deck, a roast beef meal and a performance by Charo!
NOTE: I think she’s had plastic surgery. You know those Hollyweird people.
The trouble began at our first port of call. We went to a little café where we had some communication problems. I tried ordering a Taco Salad with Fritos, explaining that’s how I make it at home on Family Taco Night. The waitress smiled and called me “poo-tah”. (I don’t know how to spell it.) But I never got my Taco Salad.
NOTE: Can anyone who speaks Mexican translate this for me?
Herb tried to get a Coors Light but they served him a local beer instead. Boy, those foreign beers really pack a punch. I had a margarita, which was a lot stronger than the ones at Chili’s. I have no idea what happened after that, because a couple hours later we woke up, bound and gagged in an abandoned tortilla factory. Our money and credit cards were gone. So was my purse-sized White Diamonds perfume.
It was our Christmas spirit that saved us. We managed to remove the tape over our mouths and started screaming for help. When no one came, we sang Christmas carols to pass the time. Herb was really hitting his stride with Burl Ives’ classic, “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” when a group of Mormon missionaries heard us through a broken window. They found us inside and kindly gave us a ride back to the cruise ship.
NOTE: Hi Terry and Sharon! Thanks for the fudge! ☺
You can imagine how happy we are to be home, cuddled up in our Snuggies and sipping eggnog! After our Mexican nightmare, we’ve never been more proud to be Americans.
Until next year,
Donna and Herb
Jingle those bells, friends and family! ‘Tis the season to be jolly!
While Santa and his elves are busy making magic at the North Pole, Herb and I will fill you in on what’s been happening at our homestead.
This year, Herb fulfilled his lifelong dream of going to clown school. What a hoot! Sadly, it all went downhill after graduation. He started performing at birthday parties, but all the kids bullied him. Instead of pin the tail on the donkey, it became “Pin the tail on that dumb-a** clown.” These kids today! So disrespectful! The final straw was when some little brat made pee-pee on Herb’s big clown shoes.
Next he became a Corporate Clown, doing motivational speaking gigs. But he only motivated people to clear out of the conference room. (On the upside, one employee thanked Herb for inspiring him to seek new opportunities. He said, “The fact that I work for an organization that would actually hire an idiot like you is a great reason to quit this job.”)
Then Herb joined a troupe called “Clowns for Christ”. These jokers spread the word of the Lord while wearing greasepaint. They save your soul while tickling your funny bone. Such characters! There’s Bozo the Baptist, the Fun Nun, Polpettino the Pious, Laffy Larry the Lutheran and a Jew for Jesus named Chuckles the Chosen One.
He was really getting a kick out of it until the big Holiday Clown Spectacular at the Church of St. John the Divine. For reasons I’m not going to get into, the lights came up to reveal my Herb passed out drunk in the manger. His greasepaint was smeared…and he was not wearing his clown pants.
The audience gasped when they saw a half naked, drunken clown where they expected to see a polythene baby Jesus. Children were crying. The other clowns were furious. Bozo the Baptist bellowed, “You’re not a clown. You’re a loser!” Laffy Larry screamed, “Grab him!” Herb woke up. Fearing for his life, he ran off the stage, out the door and through the park. You don’t know how scary it is to find a bloodthirsty pack of Christian clowns nipping at your heels. Another 12 Clowns for Christ hopped in a mini car and tried to run him down. If they hadn’t gone over the speed limit and been pulled over by the cops, I don’t know what would have happened to poor Herb.
When I finally caught up with him, he was clinging to a lamppost, wearing some park bum’s filthy trench coat. He was stinky, but safe. I was so grateful for Herb and my Isotoner gloves, which allowed me to pose for this Yuletide photo without catching a nasty hobo disease.
With tidings of comfort and joy,
Donna and Herb
Yuletide greetings everyone! It’s that magical time of year; when we conspire by the fire and visions of sugarplums dance through our heads!
First off, for those of you who saw the story on Channel 5—Herb has recovered from his terrifying Black Friday altercation. I never knew Betty Yarmouth could kick like that. You live down the street from someone for 20 years, put up with their tacky inflatable Santa trashing up the neighborhood every Christmas, pretend to enjoy the crab dip at their cheapo parties and your repayment is getting kicked in the private parts over the last Xbox at Walmart. I mean really–what’s happening to this country? Where is the holiday spirit?
Speaking of private parts, Herb and I had quite a crazy experience this summer. Our friends Bud and Nancy invited us camping with them. We were delighted. My Herb is quite an outdoorsman. (At least he was, until that unfortunate squirrel incident.)
Well. Our delight did not last long. Bud and Nancy neglected to tell us that we would be camping at a nudist resort! I was horrified. You think you know a couple. You loan them a bundt pan and share funny cat photos over email. Then wham! You find yourself making small talk at a nudist resort in Peebles, Ohio.
And let me tell you, these nudist people are hearty. They play horseshoes, darts, volleyball, and I saw one of them parachute into the campground wearing nothing but combat boots and a Cleveland Indians cap.
One night there was a potluck cookout. Since we were stuck in a bad situation, we literally made lemonade out of lemons. Herb also grilled some wieners. It was all going as well as could be expected until I realized that some sneaky nudist had spiked our lemonade! At this point Herb was on his fourth glass and things began to spiral out of control.
A few of the male nudists were playing Irish folk songs on banjos and fiddles. So Herb started doing a spirited rendition of The Riverdance. He was really getting into it. My Herb was leaping and kicking at a frenzied pace. It was an amazing union of music and movement until he lost his balance and fell into some bushes.
We soon found out that he landed in poison ivy. Now, I don’t know if any of you have ever had contact with poison ivy. But let’s just say there are certain body parts that are more sensitive than others. Naturally, we cut our nudist camping trip short and have cut off all contact with Bud and Nancy (who never returned my bundt pan, by the way.)
The happiest of holidays to you,
Donna and Herb
(Of course, my Herb always sings, “We’ll perspire by the fire.” Every single time. Every single year. From November through January. What a comedian that man is! He should be on Saturday Night Live.)
Anyway, this year Herb and I had quite a cultural awakening. We’ve been experiencing “empty nest syndrome”, what with our son Bruce still in jail for setting up a meth lab in our basement and our daughter Trish living with an individual named “Big Rod”.
NOTE: A hearty thank you to our neighbor Peggy Thompson for emailing me the link to Trish’s website. How sweet of you. I had no idea she was so…flexible.
Well, we thought it would be nice to host an exchange student, and were delighted when the exchange program said they’d send us a young man from Germany named Reinhard.
When we picked him up from the airport, we were thoughtful enough to wear the native costume of his country, so he would not be the only person in the crowd dressed in German attire. But imagine our surprise when (unlike Herb) he was not wearing lederhosen! So Herb pointed to Reinhard’s blue jeans and asked, “Is this the native costume of your little village?” Reinhard did not answer, and appeared to be scanning the crowd, sweat forming on his face. So Herb repeated it a second time, only louder and slower. Then I repeated the question a third time and he replied, “Berlin is not a little village.” He then asked if we were absolutely sure that we were his host family, or if maybe we were there to pick up some other exchange student.
“Oh no!” said Herb. “You’re stuck with us all YEAR!”
The next two weeks were just wonderful. We dove headfirst into German culture, taking Reinhard to a polka festival, making bratwurst and Velveeta casserole and entering a yodeling competition. (Herb came in 3rd place!)
Then tragedy struck. Although he did not look sick, Reinhard told us he had German measles. We offered to take him to our doctor, but he said, “No, this type of German measles must be treated in Germany.” He took the next plane back to Berlin and we have not heard from him since.
NOTE: Reinhard, if you read this, Herb and I wish you a speedy recovery!
While our exchange student experience was cut short, we were grateful for the opportunity to bring the world into our living room, where Herb still wears his lederhosen once in a while.
Joy to the World,
Donna and Herb
Rejoice in the warmth of the season! The twinkling lights and shiny bells, the glittering fake snow Herb sprayed on our Christmas tree (which gave him a terrible sinus infection) and the ugly inflatable Santa that our trashy neighbors insist upon displaying every year (despite my repeated complaints left on their voice mail) all mean one thing: the joyous merriment of the holidays is here!
This was a very special year for Herb and me. You could say we hit the jackpot…a trip to fabulous Las Vegas! What a sophisticated city! We used our coupons and ate at the Excalibur Buffet (just like being in Olde England!) enjoyed a romantic gondola ride at the Venetian and saw the Cirque du Soleil. Of course, funnyman Herb kept calling it “Jerk du Soleil”. Just like how he kept referring to Las Vegas as “Lost Wages”. Non stop. On the plane, in the taxi, at the hotel: “You know what they should call this city? Lost Wages.” “Well, here we are in Lost Wages!” “Uh oh, you’d better hide your wallet here in Lost Wages!”
It really lost its appeal after a while.
On Saturday night when I was playing the slot machines (I won 5 dollars!) Herb disappeared. I thought he’d just gone to the bathroom. But he didn’t return for a while. So I ordered another strawberry margarita. (So yummy!) By the time I finished it, he still hadn’t returned. I started to get a little worried.
I took to The Strip, determined to find my Herb. I bravely searched casinos, gift shops and the Eiffel Tower restaurant, only stopping to watch the Bellagio Fountains. (Just breathtaking!) Finally I found him crouched behind a golden statue of Siegfried and Roy. He was sweating, his eyes darting back and forth. It took a while, but I got him to leave his hiding spot. I tried to ask him what happened but all he said was, “Bright lights in the sky. Spaceship. Little glowing men. Big heads.” Then he muttered something disgusting about being “probed” that is better left unsaid.
We left the next morning. It was an uncomfortable flight for Herb, who had trouble sitting on the plane for five hours. Even worse, for weeks afterwards, he woke up at night screaming, “No! Not again! Not in there!”
Well, may the magic of the holidays gladden your spirit. Remember, Christmas is not about opening presents, but opening our hearts! (Especially when you get stuck with a cheapskate Secret Santa who thinks a used back massager is an appropriate gift. Honestly. What happened to basic etiquette?)
Until next year,
Donna and Herb
P.S. If any of you know what the strange bit of metal that is embedded in Herb’s thigh might be, could you give us a call?
Konichiwa Kris Kringle fans! It’s that holly jolly time of year when we say domo arigatou for friends and family!
What’s with all the Japanese words? Well, this year Herb and I opened up a martial arts center at the Value Rite Plaza! (We took the space between Pants Towne and Shoe Carnival.) We lucked out when MAPP (Mothers Against Porn Perversion) got the erotic bakery shut down. Good riddance. That place was a sin factory; selling unseemly baked goods like Cock-o-lot Chip Cookies and Semen Meringue Pie. The final straw was when Cheryl Pillchuck caught her son Wade violating a Red Vulva Cake in their rumpus room. Imagine a mother’s heartbreak; finding her son smothered in pervert dessert, moaning under the Thomas Kinkade painting.
So Herb and I took over erotic bakery space, removed the “Erection Confections” sign and replaced it with “Karate Korner”. The first month was pretty good. Herb was a wonderful instructor. So patient with everyone. Even Betty Yarmouth, who never got the hang of her high kicks, which always seemed to land in the most unfortunate places. On the downside: we endured persistent foot fungus outbreaks on the mats.
Note to The Thompsons: I’m not saying for sure that your son is the Typhoid Todd of foot fungus, but the evidence is very compelling.
Business was steadily increasing until one Wednesday when calamity struck Karate Korner. Betty Yarmouth noticed a mouse scurrying under the closet. Todd Thompson said one ran over his foot. Herb came barreling out of the bathroom and said one landed on his head while he was “taking care of business.” Then there was a stampede as all of our karate pupils ran for the front door.
We called the exterminators in. They wound up tearing down a wall, which to our horror revealed a secret space teeming with mice. Even worse, they were all gorging on erotic baked goods! It turns out the erotic bakers thought they’d have the last laugh by leaving a stockpile of their inventory for the mice to live on. You just don’t know how disgusting it is to find a family of mice chowing down on Red Vulva Cake.
Afterwards, we tried to get our pupils back. But word got out around town and Karate Korner became known as Mouse Manor. Then someone tipped off the Health Department about our persistent foot fungus problem, and coupled with the mouse issue, they shut us down. We had no choice but to hang up our karate pants. FYI Herb is offering to teach private karate lessons in our living room, so give us a call if you’re interested.
Note to Betty Yarmouth: Not you.
The happiest of holidays to you. May your hearts be filled with joy and your feet be free of fungus.
-Donna and Herb
Why, is that a partridge sitting in your pear tree? Oh yes, Friends and Family, it’s that season when we make merry, drink eggnog and Herb’s cookie dusted mustache tingles with holiday joy!
This year was a busy one for Herb and me. After Herb’s home brewery came to an abrupt and unpleasant end, we searched for a new way to supplement our income.
[Note to The Thompsons: Your son Todd’s disgusting, urine-soaked prank defiled the good name of Herb Hop IPA forever. That boy is a menace to society and craft beer.]
Naturally, we decided the most reasonable thing to do was to breed ferrets for profit in our basement. Such lively creatures! Really so much fun. They only bit Herb a few times. Of course, buying that plastic groin guard was a big help.
We enjoyed our new business venture so much that we decided to attend a ferret breeders’ convention in El Paso, Texas. We even bought some beautiful Ricardo® Beverly Hills luggage from Home Shopping Network for our trip.
At first everything was going great. We met a very nice fellow at the airport, who offered to keep an eye on our Ricardo® Beverly Hills luggage while I bought some Cheez-Its and Herb went to the bathroom. The flight was good (but what’s with these sourpuss stewardesses? Honestly. Whatever happened to service with a smile?) And our hotel was wonderful. They’d just redecorated the lobby. It looked like a fancy French palace—with a free pancake and waffle bar!
However, once we got to the room, everything went downhill. I had just noticed our view of the parking lot when there was a knock at the door. I thought maybe it was a free fruit basket. Or a Hickory Farms sausage and cheese sampler. But it was the DEA! They stormed in, ripped open our Ricardo® Beverly Hills luggage and we were shocked to discover seven kilos of cocaine, nestled between Herb’s hemorrhoid pillow and my Jaclyn Smith nightgown!
We protested our innocence. “We’re not dope dealers! We’re here for the ferret breeders convention!” But it fell on deaf ears. They hustled us out. We tried to show them the sign for the convention, but as it turns out, we were at the wrong hotel.
[Note to The “Ferrets for Fun and Profit” Society: Your brochure is very confusing.]
They booked and fingerprinted us. My poor Herb even suffered a prolonged and invasive cavity search. But luckily for us, we were wearing our Christmas outfits when they took our mugshots, so we could send you this festive card! It just goes to show…holiday miracles happen when you least expect them!
Blowing Snow-Covered Kisses,
Donna and Herb
Holly Jolly Yuletide Tidings Friends and Neighbors!
What a whirlwind 2016 has been, right? It’s Christmas already! Why, it seems like just last week I was coloring eggs for Sunday school at St. Mary’s Church. But these kids today are so ungrateful! I colored all those eggs and then I found a bunch of them smashed in my mailbox. My Dress Barn catalogue was ruined!
So this year Herb and I felt the entrepreneurial urge once again. They always say, “Figure out what you love and get paid for it.” Well, Herb just loves golf. (He also loves sitting in his big chair in front of the TV with his pants unzipped, but no one’s going to pay for that.) So we decided to open up a mini golf course!
Our theme was Presidential Putt Putt. We got so creative! The putting green was “The Great Democracy”. We had a windmill hole with George Washington chopping the cherry tree. A George Bush hole behind a bush. The Nixon hole was tricky, hidden under a water-logged gate. Beverages were available at the Betty Ford Center. Herb sold hot dogs from a pushcart called “Bill Clinton’s Flame-Broiled Wiener Wagon”. My Herb pushed that cart all around, so Cheryl Pillchuck’s 6-year-old niece called it “The Pushy”. We started calling it that too. After all, “Bill Clinton’s Flame-Broiled Wiener Wagon” is quite a mouthful.
It was all so much fun until one day Todd Thompson said he didn’t feel so good. Then Betty Yarmouth chimed in. Within minutes Todd barfed behind the Bush bush and Betty pooped in Jimmy Carter’s bag of peanuts. Then everyone else got sick too. Let’s just say that Abe Lincoln’s luxurious beard did not remain unscathed. And I don’t even want to discuss the violation of Jackie Kennedy’s pillbox hat.
People were defecating and retching all over our Great Democracy!
With so much vomit and fecal matter flying, no one noticed that The Pushy had come loose and was rolling down the hill towards the interstate, with Cheryl’s niece on top of it! (Kids are so quick these days! I don’t know how she climbed up there.) Suddenly Herb shouted, “Grab her by the pushy! Grab her by the pushy!”
I hot-footed it past Reagan’s Rodeo and rescued both The Pushy and Cheryl’s niece. But Herb’s reputation could not be rescued. I won’t tell you what people thought he said. It’s disgusting and inappropriate for this family Christmas letter.
We traced this intestinal devastation back to the cut-rate wieners Herb had purchased. Although the package boasted that they were “The Greatest Wieners” they were actually full of salmonella, rat hair and toenails. Can you believe it? Is there no truth in advertising anymore? Sad!
Well, Merry Christmas to all. God bless you and God bless America!
-Donna and Herb