This is how I always get the day after Christmas. I am all gung-ho for the holidays long about the end of October, rarin' to go by Thanksgiving and totally, thoroughly, utterly OVER IT by December 26th. I have exercised massive restraint today in not flying at the Christmas tree like a spider monkey and tearing it limb from limb to pack it back in
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I'ma push old father 2009 down on the front lawn as the reaper makes for him, and sit on his legs to make sure that skinny sumbeeyotch with the scythe actually gets the job done. Then I'ma cut off his head and his right hand and take out his heart and bury him face down at a crossroads with a stake through his heart. Then I'm gonna re-route a stream to pass over his gravesite so he's always beneath running water. I want to encase this decade's final resting place in cement, inside which I'll put a nuclear waste container. I want to invent universally understood pictographs to ensure that nobody ever, ever, ever opens that vault too. I want 2009 to be dubbed "the year we don't speak of" for all time, like that Egyptian pharaoh that everybody got so mad at that they went in after they'd killed him and hacked up any statue bearing his likeness and chiseled out any mention ( ... )
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