The Gift that Keeps on Giving

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The judge just kinda looks back and forth between me ‘an the affidavit.

Finally, he sets the doc down, leans back in his chair, and tosses his glasses lightly upon his desk in exasperation.

“You stand before me,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “accused of the destruction of a Christmas tree, an entire living room, and numerous Christmas presents totaling-" he pulls the forms under his nose, “$41,320 in damages.”

By this point, Terri’s sister, eh, 'Weepy,' is wailing openly in the courtroom.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I says. “And further I ask that you take the history of our relationship into consideration.”

“Proceed,” says the judge, tapping the fingertips of each hand together like a church steeple.

I stand and pace before the jury, already glaring at me in anxious disgust.

I can already see a ‘Guilty’ verdict coming.

This better be good.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I says loosening my tie. “Terri and I have been together for four years now. And every Christmas, I’m under siege.” I whirl and point at Weepy dramatically. “Because of her!”

"What?" Weepy demands between sobs. "I-!"

“Ma’am,” I says interrupting. “Do you remember what you got our youngest son two years ago?”

“Yes,” she says thinking. “It was a bicycle.”

“An unassembled bicycle,” I correct. “So you know how I spent that Christmas? I spent six hours putting that damn thing-”

"Order!" the judge snaps.

"Sorry sir. That darn thing together. And the whole time I hadda listen to the five year old ask fifteen thousand times, ‘Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you finish my bike yet? Did you-'"

“I think we get the point,” says the judge.

“No,” I says. “I don’t think you do. I have to say ‘Did you finish my bike yet?’ 14,994 and a half more times for you to get ‘the point’ here."

-Murmurs amongst the jurors suggest I might’ve hit a sympathetic note.

I return my attention to my sister-in-law. Mascara running, she stares at me in disbelief.

“And do you remember what you got him last year?”

She stammers. “A race car set.”

“But not just any race car set, right?” Whirling away, I return to pacing in front of the jury. “It was one of those battery powered race car sets with like a jillion parts. And the kind that you hadda stick the track forks into each other just perfect, or the current would short out the cars. Any slightest nudge made the whole thing not work and I hadda start the whole thing over.”

Juror Number Four -the Foreman- a burly, unshaven luberjack-looking fellow, fainted dead away.

I glare at them. "I was making up cusswords at one point!"

“Objection!” cried Weepy’s lawyer. "I fail to see how this has any bearing-"

“Look,” I says. “A lot of people would like porterhouse steaks for Christmas.”

“Yes,” cries Weepy. “But your not supposed to fully cook them before wrapping them! We thought they were a DVD player or something and put them under the tree with the rest of the presents!”

“Ah ha!” I exclaim. “And that assumption is what caused Rommel and Hess, your two German Shepherds, to destroy your living room.”

“You wrapped Milk Bones for stocking-stuffers!”

I dismiss this with a shrug.

“That was merely a coincidence.”