It’s the silly season again. I like to keep a bucket of freezing cold water in the porch for carollers. If I don’t hear a solid three-way harmony, or if any little jumper-wearing shitebag hits a bum note, the whole group gets drowned. Last year I bounced the bucket off the head of a youngfella who forgot the lyrics to Silent Night. “Holy infant, so bendy and wild”? What the hell does that mean? You don’t butcher the classics.
Usual nonsense from Theresa and the kids with the Christmas tree decorations. Not enough intensity. It looks like someone emptied a wheelie bin over a dying hedge. So we’ll all be eating Christmas dinner alone in our bedrooms again this year, and Theresa in the shed. I warned them, but they didn’t listen.
I offered to dress as Santa and visit the orphanage again this year, but they declined. Seems that I ruffled a few feathers last Christmas. One or two orphans got a few home truths about attitude and desire, and now I’m banned. Absolute nonsense.
From everyone in the Keane Family,