Mr. Boy's post yesterday about receiving tinned ham and peaches for Christmas reminded me of a holiday story of my very own, told back in 2001 on the slack. Enjoy.
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Some families have heirlooms passed down from generation to generation: a goblet, a watch, a piece of ancestral history imbued with honor and tradition.
Me? I'm a Bargiel. The one thing handed down from generation to generation is an assholish quality that ideally takes the form of humor. In the nature versus nurture debate, one can argue that nature can be overcome with copious amounts of therapy. I happen to enjoy my assholish qualities, however, so I have simply honed them over time. Living with another Bargiel (in this case, Older SlackBrother J.) has made us into a WonderTwins Power Team that is unstoppable when activated.
Which brings us to the cab ride to the airport. SlackBrother J. and I are in a jovial mood: presents have been purchased and shipped, our script has been delivered and sent to the network, and the only thing we have to look forward to is two weeks of taunting our family.
This year we've decided to go on the offensive. This year, it's about Maximum Christmas Pain.
My family, like most, is notoriously hard to shop for.
SlackDad doesn't want anything.
SlackMom wants something, but she doesn't know what it is.
Younger SlackBrother j. wants everything.
SlackBrother J. and I started early this year. Dad, the man who wants nothing, got a completely useless gift: a Chicago Bears football helmet signed by the great (and his favorite) Dick Butkus. Mom got a beautiful tote bag from Coach. Younger slackbrother j. got a DVD player.
Not too shabby.
The gifts hadn't been wrapped yet, so we gave them the obligatory warning:
DO NOT OPEN THESE BOXES
I called SlackDad once, as he'd forget there were even boxes anyway.
I phoned younger slackbrother j. and SlackMom twice.
We know, we know, we won't open the boxes.
Everyone had been warned.
They opened the boxes.
Younger slackbrother j. wanted to know if the box that read "DVD player" was his.
SlackDad, as predicted, wasn't even aware that boxes had been sent.
Older SlackBrother J. and I discussed sending the presents back and getting underwear, the exact same thing that every parent threatens to do if you peek.
But that would take time. And effort. And who wants to shop for underwear for your family?
We decided to hide the gifts. On Christmas morning, while those who celebrate will gather around the tree, with the scent of pine needles and freshly baked cookies wafting through the air. (Except for our house, where the Yuletide scent is more gassy. Apparently the Ghost of Christmas Past died in Older SlackBrother J.'s colon. Gifts of air freshener are gratefully accepted.) Dad will still get his helmet, Mom will still get her bag, but younger slackbrother j. will only get a wrapped can of chocolate covered potato chips. Once all of the gifts have been opened, Older SlackBrother J. and I will wait a bit. Just long enough for j. to wonder
is that it?
Then, at the very last moment, when hope is about to be lost, the DVD player will appear like a proverbial Red Rider BB Gun.
And there will be much rejoicing.
After they yell at us.
Because in our house, that's what Christmas is all about.
Christmas, 1996? Same hat I'm wearing here .
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