Christmas is still a few days away, but already the gifts have been rolling in, courtesy of My True Love.
On the first day of Christmas, My True Love sent to me, a partridge in a pear tree. Unfortunately, it had been made in China, and was coated with toxic lead paint. The product was quickly recalled.
On the second day of Christmas, My True Love sent to me, the entire slate of candidates running for president. They were all there, Democrats, Republicans — and even a Libertarian mingling about. Well, as you can imagine, they made quite a racket, especially since anyone not named Hillary, Rudy, Mitt or Barack pretty much had to set his hair on fire to get noticed. I sent them all into the garage so I could get some sleep.
On the third day of Christmas, My True Love sent to me, three whining celebutantes. Now, normally, this would be pretty cool. After all, what red-blooded male wouldn’t have some appreciation for three reasonably attractive young females showing up on his doorstep? But this was Britney, Lindsay and Paris, and quite frankly, they just scare me. I sent them into the garage with the candidates.
On the fourth day of Christmas, My True Love sent to me, four falling dollars. And I have to be honest. I really have no idea what a “falling dollar” is, or what that even means. All I know is that it sounds bad. Not much of a gift, if you ask me.
On the fifth day of Christmas, My True Love sent to me, five unfounded rumors. It was a nice thought, really. But I work at a newspaper office, and I guess My True Love didn’t realize that I'm already in supply of a steady stream of unfounded rumors.
On the sixth day of Christmas, My True Love sent to me, a Google search of myself. It turned up 193 hits. Not too shabby.
On the seventh day of Christmas, My True Love sent to me, Al Gore. He barged right in, waving his Nobel Prize around, complaining that it was too hot in my house, insisting that I was in danger of melting all my ice cubes. So I showed him to the garage. When he saw who was inside, he screamed and ran away. The celebutantes escaped in the melee, taking Mike Gravel, Dennis Kucinich, Hunter Duncan and Tom Tancredo with them. Nobody seemed to notice they were gone.
On the eighth day of Christmas, My True Love sent to me, a single gallon of gasoline. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure she paid more for this gift than for all the others, combined. At least it sure seemed that way.
On the ninth day of Christmas, My True Love sent to me, an asterisk. She said my gift-giving had been tainted via use of performance-enhancing credit cards. “What’s the big deal?” I asked. “Everybody’s doing it.”
On the 10th day of Christmas, My True Love* sent to me, one of those plush Christmas toys you see at Wal-Mart that play a holiday jingle whenever you push the button. I took it to the garage, to show it to the remaining candidates, but as soon as they saw it, each and everyone of them bolted out the door. I can't say that I blame them.
On the 11th day of Christmas, My True Love* sent to me, an Internet message board where people were discussing assorted Blytheville-related topics. It sounded like a good idea, but it turned out to be complete garbage. I was disappointed.
On the 12th day of Christmas, My True Love* sent to me, 12 mascot suggestions. Not only were they mostly lame, but a couple of them weren’t even identifiable.
Usually, My True Love* does a pretty good job of buying presents. But this year, she was way off the mark. Maybe next year I'll just ask for a gift card.
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