It is zero hour, and I’m trapped in Hell. Not the fiery demon-haunted domain that the nuns would invoke when I pocketed a quarter from the sidewalk or considered the latest swimsuit calender, but the kind that involves screaming children and Christmas shoppers. The Saturday before Christmas, Mom requires a few additional presents for her nieces and nephews. Dad is rearranging furniture from one corner of the living room to another corner; Mom reconsiders the lighting and astrological signs and then asks said husband to slide said sofa or hope-chest fifty centimeters or five feet to the left. I chose the better of two evils and depart for Toys ‘R Us.
One of the mysteries of the holidays that I’ve never fathomed is the proclivity of parents to tote their tots to the toy store days before Christmas. To. Buy. Christmas. Presents. Just pull back the bloody curtain on Santa’s workshop, why don’t you? While your at it, why not read the original ending of Anderson’s Little Mermaid: you know the one where Ariel turns into a murderous sociopath.