Oh, and About This Whole "Christmas" Thing ...

Predator Press

[LOBO]


Fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, I wince into them –but this does nothing practical to ease the pain.

They just keep going.

I can’t take it.

And going.

Please stop.

Finally I crack like an eggshell.

“For God’s sake, please STOP!”

Within seconds, the packed auditorium dwindles to a quieted state: a handful of Mrs. Tanner’s first grade class –still lost in song apparently- were among the last few to drift into silence.

And barring the puzzled murmurs of some 300 other parents that attended the South California Middle School Christmas Celebration Ball, there is a glorious absence of sound entirely.

“Excuse me?” says Mrs. Tanner from the side of the stage.

The kids are starin at me slackjawed.

“Ma’am,” I says. “I love Christmas just as much as anyone else. But so help me God if you make those kids do whatever that was again, I will kill you.”

“That was The Twelve Days of Chrismas,” she defends.

“No,” I says. “That was somebody smashing a 40-ounce beer bottle and jamming the pieces into my Frontal lobe.”

A fat blonde kid in front raises his hand. "Mrs Tanner-"

“Shut up!” I says, pointing at him wild-eyed.

I stand and approach the stage. “You!” I indicate the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Joseph,” he says.

“Joseph, do you have any idea what happens when you have twenty-two pipers piping simultaneously?”

Joseph just stares.

“And don’t get me started on-“ I count out some fast and furious math on my fingers, “thirty five golden rings? Oh holy Christ!”

“It’s just a song mister,” says Joseph.

“And you know what you do when you sing that song a full half an octave flat Joseph?” I lean down into his pudgy little still-asymmetrical face. “You make Santa cry.”

A tear streamed down Joseph’s cheek.

“Sir," snaps Mrs. Tanner. “They’re only six!"

I seize the clipboard from her hand. “That’s why I’m holding you entirely accountable.” Skimming her list, I begin “Oh lookit. Jingle Bells. How original.” I pause and glance at her. “You call yourself a professional? You didn’t even bother to put the ugly kids in the back row!”

Joseph wails.

“Shut up!” I repeat, already back to Mrs Tanner’s songlist. “A Hippopotamus for Christmas?” I guffaw. “Well that’s not even plausible ... !”

“Have you no soul?” cries Mrs. Tanner.

I shrug. “I got a jar of mayonnaise for it in 2003.”