ST. HOLIDAY STAYS MUM ON ACTUAL NUMBER OF PROGENY

Recent rumors that St. Holiday may have sired more than his acknowledged nine children have set off a firestorm of speculation and intrigue, not only on this continent but across the Pacific as well. Currently in an undisclosed rehabilitation facility for treatment of a serious chocolate addiction, the saintly one has refused to either confirm or deny the rumors, stating through his spokesman, "I can not discuss this sensitive subject, especially without the permission of my secret children, and especially at this trying time when I am dealing with an affliction that threatens my marriage, health, life and even my very credit rating." Pressed for further information concerning the Colonel of Truth, St. Holiday's publicity manager reminded the restless crowd of media representatives gathered outside the poet's Show Low home that on this day in 430 AD, St. Augustine of Hippo died. St. Holiday can be expected to spend this significant day of remembrance as is his holy custom, by searching for some modern Pelagian heresy to oppose in word and deed. His publicist said that St. Holiday has also been preoccupied with perfecting his signature look, though he has been having some difficulty getting his eyebrows just right, and the clamoring public may have to settle for mere profiles in the future. Furthermore, he has been wrestling with whether to use the word "insouciant" in future blog posts. A confidential source has leaked that St. Holiday is also considering offers from the Federal Witness Protection Program. He may need it if rumors concerning his so-called unacknowledged children are born out.

AMAZING GRACE - ST. HOLIDAY FOUND!

Authorities called off the search for St. Holiday earlier this morning, when he was discovered in the Chicken Catchatorium in his own backyard, huddled next to his hens, shivering and pale. Witnesses report that he looked barned beyond recognition. When he was found, he was conscious, and none of his vital signs seemed impaired. According to one officer, there was a distinct odor of chocolate on his breath. Later, his spokesman released a statement from the father of at least nine, which reads in part: "Of my own free will, I have voluntarily agreed to enter a facility for the treatment of chocolate addiction. Otherwise, the Lovely One won't let me back in my house. I ask for respect and privacy for myself and my children, as we deal with this situation as a family." His wife said, "I'm glad he's alive, but he owes me a couple bags of Hershey's." The name of the rehabilitation facility is a closely-guarded secret, a move designed to thwart the paparazzi. It appears that St. Holiday has hit rock bottom. This stunning development came as a shock to his closest associate, who said, "I saw him just yesterday. He seemed so totally normal. Sure, he staggered some, slurred his speech and collapsed from weakness off and on, but that's just the way he is."

St. Holiday's mother, Gloria Van Sciver, was contacted at her South Jersey residence for a comment. She was busy with her sister, Margie, dipping the last few hundred pounds of chocolates for this season's customers, as she has done for many years. "I don't understand how this could have happened," she said. I warned him about those dark chocolates. If he'd stick with the milk chocolates, he'd be OK. I tell him, no more than a pound a day, like when he was young. He's tall; he can handle it. But will he listen to his mother? No! He never would, not that boy. He's got a mind of his own. Well, now he'll have to pay the price, speaking of which, he better not ask me to pay for his rehab. He got himself into this fix." As she spoke with our source, she began to put together a two-pound box of her mixed milk chocolates with nuts, saying, "I've got to find a way to get this into the rehab facility to him. It will help with the withdrawal."

St. Holiday's latest trouble suggests that he has demons at war with his angel-may-care affability. We can only look upon his willingness to obtain treatment for his chocolate addiction as a positive and courageous act, which will help him move on with his life at last. We will attempt to keep the public informed of his progress as new details are released by the family.

NEWS FLASH - ST. HOLIDAY MISSING!

This just in from our correspondent on the scene. St. Holiday, sometimes referred to as the Dalai Lion of Show Low, has turned up missing. Nationally-known for his absolute obscurity, the quirky, aging hippie was last seen just before neighbors heard his wife scream, "Holiday, did you eat my chocolate?!" According to investigators, the so-called Lovely One discovered incriminating wrappers in the wastebasket of St. Holiday's Throne Room. These wrappers were for Hershey's Nuggets, the special dark chocolate with almonds. Since it is well-known that St. Holiday prefers the milk chocolate variety, police are wondering if perhaps someone else may have deposited those wrappers in the trash. However, the Lovely One has repeatedly employed wild and emphatic gesticulations to assure investigators that no one else would think to enter the Throne Room, unless he was either dressed in full bio-hazard apparel, completely insane, or under the influence of mind-altering drugs. The door is kept safely shut, she stated, and no one, except the Past Master himself, is permitted entrance into his "sanctuary," as he calls it. The family is rattled by this latest development. Some are already tacking missing posters to telephone poles and yellow ribbons to neighborhood trees. Authorities are combing the area with cadaver dogs. There is early suspicion that the Lovely One may have something to do with his disappearance, and it is expected that she will be hauled in for more thorough questioning later this evening. There was mention made by one confidential source of a life insurance policy, but details are sketchy at this time.

Recently, there has been mounting speculation over St. Holiday's health. It was revealed only a few days ago that he is losing his battle with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and that he had suffered a relapse into a weekend of shallow thought. The pre-Apocalyptic visionary and Pop of Kings has managed to elude commercial success with his recently-released, shocking expose of the widespread popular discontent with material insecurity, and it is thought that this new failure may have been the proverbial straw that led to present events. Or, he may just be hiding from his enraged wife, who is quite protective of her chocolates. Sweet talk, personal charm, clean jokes and reverent wit may only go so far with the Lovely One.

St. Holiday has never been known for merely flirting with disaster. No, he has a way of embracing it like a lover, kissing it full on the lips, taking it home and feeding it like a poor stray. He is the most self-unmade man to be found among anatomically-correct specimens of mankind. Over the past few months, his agent has been engaged in serious discussions with the Acquisitions Department of the Museum of Natural History concerning the eventual donation of St. Holiday's brain for scientific research and public display. Negotiations have reached an impasse over the color of the jar in which it is to be preserved. The donor has insisted upon a tinted jar, preferably in rose or chromium blue, to mask the depressing gray of his whorly organ. If St. Holiday has finally met his fate, as many hope and some few fear, this issue of tissue may be resolved rather soon.

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.