It’s a fairly bold statement, I know. Superlative, even.
And I am sure that most of you have a memory of a Christmas that you would rank among your finest. A perfectly cooked turkey, a proposal under a glowing tree on Christmas eve, a snow-covered moonlit night.
Any of these could be a fine Christmas. But they would not be the finest Christmas ever. Why, you ask, are they not the finest?
Because they were not the year that my sister, very young and suffering from an unprecedented slip of decorum that has not been repeated since, had a pitched fit of excitement at the prospect of the goodies under the tree and the knowledge that Santa Claus himself had just recently been in our house. She ran about the tree giddily until she suddenly came to a stop, frozen to the spot in her fancy new nightdress which had been crafted by our mother. As she stood there unmoving, my parents noticed it. The tiny puddle extending from the floor around my sister’s feet.
The giddy had got the best of her.
Now I don’t recall these events exactly, as I am far younger than my sister. I rely on our mother’s unfailing memory – but if my sister cares to dispute Mom’s recall, I have a recent MRI of her plump and healthy brain posted up on my office wall.
And so it is recalled, in the Great Book of the Cooks, that my sister looked down upon herself, and found herself wanting, and unclean. And lo her wrath was mighty. She cast her gaze upon the rest of the family and the ground shook with the might of her entire tiny furious self: “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME I HAD TO PEE???”
I feel that this rather unexpected assault on my sister’s dignity, coupled with the fact that if anyone was due an uncontrolled opening of the sluices it was surely the ungainly, loud mouthed younger sister, fueled the years of torment that were to follow for me. In fact, I realize that this post will no doubt mean that this Christmas season I can expect a rather hearty dose of laxatives in my turkey dinner.
Again, I am the one on the right who looks like a boy uncomfortably squeezed into a matching dress along with my sister. And I do appear to have just, um, taken a load off.
But at least I will know it’s coming! ha HA!
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Laxatives!! Laxatives!! You think you will get away with something that easy!!! HAHAHAHAHA …
For the record I was 5 years old…
and in case you don’t remember I have the better track record of the best pranks ever pulled on a younger sister. EVER. (you will recall the 3 month long prank of “Barney, the old guy I was dating who owned a bar”)
You will indeed have the finest Christmas ever this year … wondering at all times what could be happening next… old tricks like spit in the drinks (or worse), dog poo in the food (and she eats raw meat if you recall, her poo is much more interesting than the poo of 30 years ago), spiders in the house (and not my house, I still have a key!)… yes sirreee, this may just be the finest Christmas ever indeed. If ever anyone needed inspiration this was it.
Merry Christmas Sis!
I HAVE ALL THREE KEYS!!
Can you say Home Depot?? or Depot??
Okay, you seriously have to check this out…. it is proof of what I say above…
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WodmQuygiXg/TQw4lYLeb1I/AAAAAAAAAqw/p7Z_EHWSYrA/s1600/eye-macros-jumping-spider3.jpg
i’m not clicking on any link with jumpin spiders in the url
really… would I put a jumping spider link in there?
Yikes!!! Umm nobody told me it was gonna be like this, HaHaHaHa Can’t wait. Just don’t catch me in the cossfire.
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WodmQuygiXg/TQw4lYLeb1I/AAAAAAAAAqw/p7Z_EHWSYrA/s1600/eye-macros-jumping-spider3.jpg
yes.
crap – I didn’t actually look at the words in that link!!! well… you will meet him soon enough.
I can’t hack your twitter account and announce to the world that “I enjoy the fine comforts of my adult diapers!”
but I know people who can.
At least she wasn’t a grown up and there was no drinking involved. Nothing.
Insightful. And not entirely unsurprising.
ha HA
I’m going to use that line the next time I wet myself.
Wait…
oh my.
I can’t wait to hear the stories of this Christmas, afterwards, at a safe distance. Once the scabs have formed.
The scabs never form mentally. That I know.