If it were up to me, we wouldn’t have gotten a Christmas tree. It’s just not a big deal for me and the only reason we even had one last year was because my mom took us out and bought it for us. I’m cheap; I’d rather use that money to buy gifts. (Read: drugs. Read also: drugs as gifts.)
But then I remembered Chooch and realized I need to consider him. Especially when he’s been acting all perplexed over where Santa is going to put his presents if we didn’t have a tree. So the three of us finally went out to some roadside tree lot near our house on Sunday, where some fucking gross Christmas spirit penetrated my heart and I went from not caring about a tree to desperately needing to find the most majestic one imaginable, preferably equipped with a nest of fornicating Keebler elves.
Before I was even all the way out of the car, I was instantly ensorcelled by the young guy who approached us with his offer to help us find the perfect tree.
“I’m in love with this guy,” I whispered to Henry, who was quick to point out that this charming lad was essentially just being a salesman and this treatment was definitely not as special as I wanted to believe, and why couldn’t I see the strobing Christmas light-strung dollar signs in his eyes?
I guess when you’ve been fucked over by as many prostitutes and wives as Henry, skepticism is the only hat that feels right on your head.
Eventually, Henry tossed his say in the situation up in the air, watched it blow away on a cloud of pussy-whipped emasculation, and then proceeded to make passive aggressive comments about my choice of frosted fir.
Perhaps if he didn’t want to get saddled with one of the most expensive trees left on the lot, he may want to refrain from saying things like:
- “It’s up to you”
- “Whatever you want”
- “I left my balls in the Service”
The tree guys, after securing our new over-sized cat toy on the roof of our car, asked if Chooch wanted to help them sell trees for the rest of the day. I wanted to let them take him, so badly.
Once we got home, Henry sent me off to the attic with explicit instructions to return with the tree base, only the tree base, but by the time I got up there, I forgot what he wanted and just brought down the ornaments. I let Henry do everything else in an effort to help him grow some length back to his weener.
“I had these put away all nice and neat last year, then some ASSHOLE had to pull them out and take pictures of herself with them.”
It took Henry a good twenty minutes to detangle the lights while I sat on the couch and did important things like play on my phone and watch the NHL Network. Chooch was a lot of help, I’m sure Henry will agree.
“Stop with the fucking pictures,” Henry yelled. “I’m not taking any,” I swore, as I partook in an uploading frenzy on Facebook.
As magnificent as last year’s Liberatree was, we all mutually agreed to 86 the tinsel and opted for some gold garland and purple beads instead. It’s not as flashy, only half as gaudy, and definitely needs more garland, but I present to you the Mediocritree:
When I told Henry the tree’s name, he looked at me dumbly (not uncommon).
“Because last year it was the Liberatree,” I reminded him, in a snide teenagery tone
“Oh my god, don’t you read my blog?” I yelled. I know he doesn’t!
Chooch and I fought for the entire hour it took to hang ornaments. Someone tell him you can’t put four ornaments on one goddamn bough. TELL HIM. Ew, it’s like Chinese water torture for my OCD. This kid is like the little brother that I’m much too old for. He knows every button to push.
I’ll admit, it’s nice having a live tree usurping our living room once again. Even if I can’t put down any presents without living in fear of the fucking cats pissing on them.No tags for this post.