Don't worry; I still love Halloween. I also love Thanksgiving, which comes in November. But since I'm starting to get my Christmas catalogs, and Christmas is a mom's biggest production effort of the year, Christmas is already on my mind. Specifically, dysfunctional Christmas tales.A friend of mine, with whom I have since lost touch, had a very sick and twisted father. His parents were divorced, and dad lived in a little apartment littered with porn and guns. Some loaded. And the porn was not so much scattered about, but stored alphabetically in wall to wall shelving. He was quite disturbing.
One Christmas, dear old dad gave both of his sons illegal UZI's. They went out to a field and shot up pumpkins all day. Ah, the memories.
The next year, he forgot about Christmas; when his sons showed up to visit, he wrote them each a check, grabbed a couple of porn films off his shelf, put the items in brown paper grocery sacks, rolled up the tops, and growled, "Here. Merry Christmas."
