A Christmas Story
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Of course, that might have had something to do with the traps my brother had placed through the house just a week before.
It was a Christmas Eve like any other. Stockings hanging by the fire place, chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Kids gathering around in the living room, quietly listening to the stories we had to tell.
The youngest didn’t want to hear about Santa’s magic sleigh or how Rudolph may or may not have saved Christmas. Little Timmy wanted to hear stories about his Dad. I gladly obliged and told him about all the times his dad had made the “naughty list” as a kid. Now, now, don’t worry, I stayed away from the really bad stuff.
Each and every time I got to the “and they all lived happily ever after” part, little Timmy would ask, “more, please”. I was seriously running out of stories to tell that wouldn’t scar this poor soul for life. I looked to my mother for help. Surely, she had a story or two to tell. She shook her head, and bit her lip. Her stories were worse than mine.
Should she have told him the story of his conception? Look, little Timmy, you see that spot there on the floor right next to the Christmas tree. That’s where your mommy and daddy broke into the house. Yes, that’s right, they snuck in through that window right there, had drunken sex on the floor and passed out only to be discovered the next day by good ol’ uncle Nick.
No, no kids, she didn’t tell little Timmy that story. Wisely she left the room before any damage could be done, which is exactly what I did when he asked me if we’d ever done any drugs. That kids would have to be a story for another day.