Friday, Dec. 17, 2004 - 5:05 P.M.
�Twas mere days before Christmas And I was but a small child Hopped up on candy and full of joy for the season Running �round the house all crazy and buck wild My brother and I were like little sugar gnomes Bounding through this house so full of Christmas spirit My mother and father were busy hauling in the tree While carolers sang outside--oh, can�t you just hear it?! When suddenly from the hallway A great noise pierced the cold, hollow night My brother and I flew to the living room Only to be greeted with a most amusing sight. Our father had chosen the most humongous of trees Surely more than a little money had been spent He explained how he just knew it to be the one and How enamored was he of fullness and fragrant pine scent Oh Hell! Oh Screw it! Oh Stupid motherfu--! Oh Shit! Oh Christ! Oh Fucker of hell! Oh ass--! Oh Dammit! I don�t care, rot on the porch! Just sit out here then! Fine! You see, it was full and unwieldy as he had already cut the twine. As a cobra will spit to let you know what is to come And a rattler will shake to give you a warning My father cursed that tree for hours and still hours more Truly, it seemed to us, straight on till morning And then, blessedly, into the house it came As my mother and I set about preparing the perfect spot My father and brother covered the floor with newspaper All the better to kill a perfect tree with 1970s spray can flock(ing) He was prepared well, my father, all ready and equipped And with his gloves and his painter�s mask at the ready He shook the can and began the process, up and down, Back and forth in a swaying motion, slow, and steady All was going swimmingly, the tree was becoming white The rest of us were busy testing out the lights He was focused and concentrated so on his work And then, the can, she gave out with one last spurt We all held our collective breath, this was to be bad You had never seen such immediate anger as that of our Dad He shook the can, no doubt his brain screamed, �No!� �How will I flock this stupid tree without the fake snow?� He could not believe this was happening And though he had many more cans of this stuff He picked up that tree and hurled it right out the window Turned on his heel and stalked about with great huff. Very shortly thereafter the doorbell rang out with its tone Of chiming bells so appropriate for this, the season Who was to be calling now, we wondered, Whatever could be the reason? A man, our neighbor, stood there on our front porch With great effort and both his hands, he held our half flocked tree He did not smile, he did not dispense pleasantries, he grimaced, Our tree had entered his kitchen window and landed at his knee �Merry Christmas. Here�s your fucking tree. Now, who�s going to fix my damn window?� All apologies to Clement Clarke Moore. But that my friends? Is a very true story.
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� Purplecigar
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