Tuesday, 16 December 2014

Get a tree they said.

It'll be fun they said.

I am known to be a Grinch. My Great Suet Rage of 2012 is still spoken of in hushed tones around this time of year.

So, to prove my detractors wrong, this year I purchased decorations.

It'll be fun, they said.

So, decoration-buying we go, and purchase from FoodMart, a delightful box of silver bally things, of various shapes and sparklement.

How hard can this be?, thinks I.

I arrive home, full of the Joys Of The Season, and wonder why I can hear someone humming "I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus". Oh It's me! As Chrismassy as a candy cane, aren't I?

Now it's been over 4 years since I hung a bauble (not accounting for "bauble" when it's a cute euphemism), and probably about 15 years since I purchased one. So, as in all my Xmas endeavours (remember the great "My Cat is a Tea-Party Christo-Fascist" post?) I am immediately thwarted. These new fangled baubles don't have hangy thingamajigs on them. How the hell is one supposed to attatch them to said tree? Not to be outdone, I source some fine copper wire, with which I shall attach said sparkly spheres of merriment!

After 40 minutes and 6 out of 40 baubles attached, I grow weary. it's the height of the dry season up here. TheYanks don't call it 90/90 for nothing, my festive friends. So, I come up with an ingenious solution to my sweaty Saturnala conundrum. Rather than hang each ball individually, I shall string them on the wire, and loop them with gay abandon uponst my Yule Tree.

As I am threading them on the wire, my nose starts to itch. Madly. I have one hand stabilising the Xmas tree and the other threading the wire, so have no available appendage with which to scratch.

I sneeze, and the whole freaking thing comes tumbling to the floor,  wrenched off its perch by my mid-sneeze flailing hands.

I realise that's what's made me sneeze is the glitter. It's everywhere. In my hair, up my  nose, bedazzled across my decolletage. It's flowing from my sparkly balls like tears. Tears of impotent rage, the tears of the lame Nepalese orphans who sweated away for $1 a month,  in some Asian factory, over the leprosotic bodies of their siblings, to make these insidious symbols of Western Consumerism.

But that's not the end of it, oh NO, dear reader!! The balls spill, as if in slow motion, tumbling gracefully in a silver cascading rainbow of child-labor oppression, to the floor. Rolling, tumbling, susurating, clattering, the summon....

The Cats.

yes. That IS plural. Since my last missive here, we have acquired two new felines; Basement and Ceiling.


Black Kittehs, Silver Glitter. See where this is going?

I finally herd up the cats, now looking like they should be wearing skin-coloured fishnets, and auditioning for some tacky cheese-fest in Vegas, fronting for Max Maloney and The Crimpolene Four, and manage to find MOST of my now-denuded-of-orphan's-tears-glitter Xmas baubles.

Whilst sobbing and quaffing Vodka in one hand, I quickly string the forlorn Pagan Hell Demon Orbs onto a bit of wire and wrap them, with nary a thought to asthetics around the tree.

Readers, May I give your V'op and The Husbang's Xmas Tree 2014.



Have a safe and secular Chrimbo season. see you all next year.

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