It was pretty exciting growing up in a home where Christmas wasn’t a big deal. Did I say exciting? I meant shitty.
As my mom tucked me in on Christmas Eve, she mentioned that Santa had phoned while I was at school, and he let it slip that he would be bringing me 49 presents. I was eight.
It took forever to fall asleep that night. I thought about all the different ways I could rub in my bounty to the other kids at school. The fat man was going to bring me 49 presents…and I hadn’t even been good that year!
My little enterprising mind started wondering just how many gifts I could get if I actually behaved. 60? 70? Lordy, if I listened to my parents and stopped hitting my little brother, maybe I could get into the triple digits.
I went to bed that night determined to be a good girl the following year.
I rushed downstairs at 4 am the next morning. I only saw two gifts with my name under the tree. Surely, that asshole was playing a trick on me. Where the hell were my 47 other presents? Was this some sort of sadistic holiday gift hunt? Was Santa going to make me scurry around the house looking for my gifts?
I decided I might as well start with the gifts under the tree. I opened the big box first. Looky here, a Christmas sweater. It was nice, except that it WAS Christmas, so I couldn’t even wear it for another 11 months, and by then it probably wouldn’t even fit.
Then, I opened the smaller box. A Crayola box of 48 crayons.
The crayons came in handy that night. I wrote Santa a note with my black crayon, except for a few choice words that I wrote in red. Blood red.
Merry Christmas, folks.
Any Christmas funnies you want to share?
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photo via RansomInk Shop @etsy.com