Every Christmas, millions of people all over the world have their Christmas wishes fulfilled by anonymous gift givers. These “Secret Santas” give Jimmy his new pair of skates, even though male figure skaters are at a great risk of being molested by their coaches; and Annabelle gets the new Raggedy Ann doll, which is likely to be possessed by pure evil; and Chris receives the much deserved, though long overdue, punch in the nose, but right on the bridge so it doesn’t bleed too much. Oh, no! I guess he will have to skip wearing his unattractive nerd glasses for his graduation photo. Such is life.
Wow! So much happiness, but just like an illiterate Siri, millions of dyslexics have their Christmases ruined by a “Secret Satan.”
Metathesis is the most common form of spelling or grammatical error, the interchanging of a vowel and consonant, and for dyslexics of the world who only want to untie in a message of peace and love for Dog, Christmas is a difficult time of the year.
“Last year, Santa set fire to the entire building complex,” recounts Ginnie from Lancashire, referring to the 2020 holiday conflagration that left 23 dead and scores more victims in hospital. “I wrote him, and I told him that I wanted a deep frier for the block, so’s we could all enjoy some homemade fries, and this…” dramatic pause, with her hands sweeping to highlight the cat-ass-trophy (think about it) that had occurred, “…this is what we got. Santa can rot in Hell, as far as I am concerned. All the pagan holidays are for them that is soft in the head, is what I say.”
When asked for clarification as to whether she meant Santa or Satan rotting in Hell, Ginnie simply replied, “Yes. Or, maybe. I don’t know. I’m reading right now, about Goldilucks and the Thirteenth Bare.”
If the universe started on a Sunday, then right now… okay, so, it’s probably not Friday, just guessing. Monday in the early morning, maybe? Like when it is still dark outside because of the time changing in October? The switch to using a 24hr clock was a fantastic idea, otherwise I would be rushing for a 2pm meeting right now, instead of going in for a refill.
“‘Twas brillig and the slithy toves, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for me who was insufficiently liquored and searching for a fifth of Jameson to extend the evening, and upon finding a fresh new bottle, decided to write about the experience and subsequent manic hallucinations in prose form.” Spoiler alert: the red nose is cancer.
To post, or to review more carefully when sober? That is the question. Meh, it’s not literature. Hey; nothing good ever came from waiting. Although, a lot of bad things come from haste, but that’s a different lesson. Hurrying is the thing you do when you are out of time. Rushing is the thing you do when hurrying isn’t reckless enough. Russian is the thing you are when you want to invade Ukrainia. Yeah, I know, but only fools are Russian that Angels fear are bread.