The curse of Uncle Jerry

Hello. I hope you're all having a lovely Chrolstwaanzakkuh.

Christmas Eve was some fucked up shit, yo.

Let me explain:

My niece, Heather, has an imaginary Uncle Jerry. Uncle Jerry wears a worn hoodie and disreputable trousers with mustard stains. His hair is rather greasy, his chin stubbly, and he suffered some sort of injury in 'Nam that means that his periodic outings to Wal-Mart must be closely supervised, in order to stop him trying to shoplift meat and packets of underpants. She did not specify, but I rather imagine Jerry has what The Tick described as that drinky-uncle smell. Uncle Jerry seems to have stowed away in Heather's luggage this year.

I left work at 2:00 and arrived home just in time for a massive panic attack. I went to bed fully clothed, because that's what you do. Mom knocked on the door at six and asked if I wanted anything to eat, because the relatives hadn't bothered to turn up or call and the pizza was getting cold and she was hungry, goddammit, and also was I still alive. So we ripped ourselves a couple of slices, which made the van full of Larimers appear in the driveway, 'cause that's what happens. So they all pour in, including Donnie's dog Jennie, a giant but well-behaved Labrador. I get to tell them that they've RUINED CHRISTMAS!!! Much babbling, but we're all off our stride because of the lateness and the absence of the Colorado branch. Mom knocks over the vase of flowers from the California kids, soaking her new tablecloth and a chunk of the floor. Re-heating the pizza is a major project, the salad and cheese and stuff are completely forgotten.

The small turnout is good, though, because we can all fit around the table for a change, and tell stupid jokes. (What kind of bees make the best milk?) Until Jenny comes in and belches meaningfully. Cathy, suspicious, peers into the living room and finds the pound of cocktail shrimp has gone missing, tails and all. We don't tell her that she's RUINED CHRISTMAS!!! because she's only a dog and will think we're actually angry, when in fact having to process that much seafood will be punishment in and of itself.

So presents. Kerfuffling over who has to gets to be Santa. I volunteer. This works well until I reach around behind the tree for a package and, in true Uncle Jerry style,

<sub>knock

the

entire

tree

over.</sub>

Oh, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuudge. I have RUINED CHRISTMAS!!!

I have a very high embarrassment threshold, but it's been well and truly scaled, spray painted, ripped down, and now commemorative bits are being sold on eBay. I hate myself and I've killed the chibi vengeful Old Testament God tree-topper.

That's pretty much it, really.

I got pajamas with chickens on them, a nifty crocheted Oliphaunt called Nemi, and a swell handmade and hand-dyed felt scarf. That smelly fucker Uncle Jerry would never get stuff that swell.