CHRISTMAS COMMERCIAL

Criminy, people! Have you seen my house? Have you seen the boxes and boxes of crapola just lying around like a lazy, farting cat in front of a roaring fire? Have you seen the bags and bags of "What the junk is this?" decorations, that had nothing to do for the last 11 months in storage, therefore, spent the time fornicating in the dark, plastic buckets with other worn and weary decor, resulting in a whole gaggle of illegitimate tinsel wads and cheap, tangled lights? Have you seen me outside, barefoot, trying to tie a crunchy, left over velvet bow on my iron railing, and then limping back indoors, as my non tempered glass feet immediately shattered and bled from the impact of extreme temperatures?

No. No, you haven't. Because you're too busy acting all competent and smug, having your lights, stockings and ornaments hung with care, and pretending you're in a Christmas commercial, wearing a form fitting cashmere sweater, smiling demurely and looking out your frosted window pane, while you blow on a mug of steaming hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

And I kind of hate you right now. And it's likely to continue until you remember how much you owe me, and prance on over here like a good reindeer does, to help out Princess Lisa, so she can start sucking down a few mugs of that Christmas cheer, herself. With marshmallows.

If I don't hear my doorbell ringing by midnight, you're dead to me.