A PRESSING RELEASE

Early today, sources close to St. Holiday announced a significant symbolic achievement by the trippy quipster so few have come to know and love. Fresh on the behind of his convincing victory in Monday's extreme breakfast competition, the man now known in private circles as Sir Real, is ending speculation by pulling himself out of the running as the Republican vice-presidential candidate. This was entirely unexpected, since he is a registered Independent. Since being passed over by Obama just as Moses was passed over by the Angel of Death, St. Holiday has been inconsolable and almost unavailable for comment. He is a victim of his own non-existant approval ratings, oddly philosophical theatrics and a botox procedure that went horribly wrong. His ragbin style has not helped him either. We hear that recovery efforts are underway. Over the weekend, our subject was spotted on one occasion, clothed in bubblewrap, hollow-eyed and unshaven, muttering, "I hate them; they killed my son." Yet, only hours later, he stood in the doorway of his humble chateau, dressed in his trademark shiny vinyl raincoat, with his palm on the very forefront of his well-informed mind, preparing, as he declared, to rush into a phone booth to change. We believe he meant, to find change, an activity he pursues on weekends to supplement his family budget. Our readers will appreciate that St. Holiday is always unpredictable, except after sunrise.

It probably has not helped his cause that he has long been under surveillance, wanted for questioning, and awaiting amnesty as the most notorious member of Show Low's fashionable underground. How he has eluded the justice system after so many years is a wonderment to all who hate him. Some might think of St. Holiday as just another shot at the buzzer that did not go in, but many recognize that at least the shot bounced around the rim a few times. However, what should we expect from one who grew up during the Great Depression, his own? The few who care for him applaud him as one who is occasionally capable of emotional depth and nuance, who keeps his phaser set on stun, his triglicerides at optimal levels, and his hands from clutching his own throat.

An anonymous source has informed this writer that St. Holiday intends to make a dramatic comeback through a computer-generated replica of himself in high resolution. This is news indeed, since he has never been known to have any resolution at all. We hear that St. Holiday has been working on this project for many years and that he has finally succeeded in constructing a completely-convincing digital doppelganger with realistic facial animation. This he intends to send to assume his new employment as Show Low's grantwriter/housing coordinator, having programmed it for high definition output. Having freed up his time, St. Holiday will download his aging corpus, made of the finest molecules known to man, onto his livingroom couch, where he will devote considerable time to the issue of how to complete the final two things he must accomplish before his own death. It is to be hoped that his digital clone will not fall into the wrong hands.

St. Holiday's name may not be widely known, but the letters of his name, every single one, are known wherever the English alphabet is acknowledged and employed. Therefore, it can be truly stated that much of the world is acquainted with him in a particular manner. Though disappointment and failure are his nightly lullaby, he has at least achieved this measure of global celebrity. One might hope that someday the world will put the pieces together and come to know the entire puzzle which is St. Holiday.