Two weeks and counting and it’s all over but the shouting.
Early mornings and late nights; low balances and high bills.
It’s beginning to feel a lot like Ch-
Uh, uh uh. You can’t make me say the WORD, and not because of inclusionary, non-denominational political correctness. I won’t use any of the other words either.
People in the mall call me Scrooge, but I quickly point out their error. I’m not a Scrooge. I wouldn’t make Bob work on the 25th and I’m quite fond of a hot stove filled with plenty of coals.
No, in the twelfth month of every year, I’m struck by the sudden urge to hitch up the dog and head into Whoville.
Peace? Joy? Goodwill to men? Catch me after 2:00 PM on the twenty-fourth.
You’re a mean one, Mister Grinch.
But Then Again, You’ll Have This . . .