christmas is a comin’ look out for twinkle elf, making christmas cigarettes all by himself

Two minutes, forty-two seconds.

That’s precisely how much time you’ve got at the mall on a Sunday afternoon during the Christmas shopping season before you’re ready to stab every single person in the eye with that spork you ate your mashed potatoes and gravy with. But great news, heavyset woman shoving the oversized cinnamon roll into your mouth and pretending your little girl isn’t screaming and crying at the top of her lungs not three feet away from me:

I left it at the Dairy Queen, in the plastic basket along with part of a steak finger and half a styrofoam cup of white gravy.

Little Becky will escape my wrath, unscarred and ready for her Libby Lu makeover and photo shoot. Unscarred in the physical sense, that is; evidence that her own fat mother thought she wasn’t pretty enough at the age of six will probably do some emotional damage, but maybe in a few years it’ll give her therapist something to blame the anorexia and heroin addiction on.

But that’s just me, I suppose… you know, Mr. Happypants, living in a world of flowers and puppies and root beer-flavored bottle caps, always looking on the bright side of things.

You could learn a thing or two.