Hopefully we all got presents this year. Well, except for those who got new tattoos instead. Especially prison tats. Absolute dead give-aways to the Big Guy with the bag-o-goodies that the wearer of such has been naughty the past year. Well, unless you’re visited by one of the bad Santas.
Once again, I dodged an avalanche of rocks from our fireplace socks.
Given rising inflation — especially the costs of energy, lumps of coal might have been acceptable in certain circumstances.
W and I both had Christmas morning glasses of French bubbly enabling me to take my first nap of the day at 1115 AM.
Asked Santa for hair gel, a white bathing suit, and a gift card to WalMart. Foiled once again by poor USPS delivery performance.
I had hoped to buy W a pair of these hand painted gems at Harry’s Shoe store on Broadway in NYC. They were out of stock, so they’re on back order for her birthday. She’ll rock the walkers that circle Forsyth Park.
Thank God, no Chode were hiding under the tree.
Just can’t touch this.
Ish.
To one and all we wish you many happy returns!
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