Can I Have My Life Back, Now?

Whew…glad that shit’s over. Can we turn off the sappy music and schmaltzy TV now? Can we resume regular programming? Leave The Tinselight Zone? Okay, that last one was reaching, but it’s all over but the shopping, folks, let’s move on!

I managed to get out of assembling the really hard toys, i.e., any Hot Wheels track setup. I look serious and scientific while I use manly tools to remove battery covers and insert batteries and make sure things turn on…chimp work, in other words.
The wife, though, sits bemusedly in a scatter of track parts and gaily colored plastic shapes that have to rational relation to each other, squinting to read a poorly translated set of ‘instructions’ someone thoughtfully printed out on a 3′ by 3′ sheet of flimsy paper in twelve languages including Christ’s Aramaic.

I am glad to know that on the other side of the world right now, some furriner is sitting in a pile of sharp-edged plastic, squinting at his set of ‘instructions’, and wondering just how many monkeys it took to type them up.

I drank an entire fifth of damn good brandy between 3pm and 1am on Christmas Eve, except for a good knock I saved to put in my coffee Christmas morning. I’m pretty sure I got laid…well, someone got laid…or something, anyway.
My parents gave us a video camera and I my cruel wife filmed me in all of my Christmas Morning Glory, looking like a fur-covered ball of food you’d find under the couch a month later. Tousled is kinda cute, or so I’m told…I looked more like the afterbirth from a Mongolian gang-bang…the sheet marks made me look all piratey, and hadn’t faded by the time I went down for my Christmas Afternoon Nap.

Oh well, the little ones had a blast, and that’s what counts. I didn’t shoot any family members, or even piss any off. I got several really relieved emails congratulating me about that. My prodigal son even called…and even my non-prodigal ones. Cheap bastards coulda sent money and/or liquor. Oh well.

I’m gonna celebrate New Years Eve like I was at an Iraqi wedding, so be sure to wear your helmets! Gravity’s a bitch, and so’s this hangover.

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