Here’s a round of Happy Holidays to the teeming millions reading this blog. To help celebrate the season at our house, we put together a stocking for Wiggy:

Wiggy keeps trying to get to it, I’ve been told, because the Insta-Princess has woken each morning this past week to see some part of Wiggy pressing against her stomach. (Kinda like Alien, only without so much gore.) The Insta-Princess had been telling me for a while now that Wiggy was jumping jacks in her belly, but each time I placed my hand on her stomach to catch some movement for myself, Wiggy calmed down.

Until last night. As an early holiday gift, Wiggy allowed me to catch him/her in the spotlight: I finally felt the sucka wiggling and jiggling. It was very cool. So, thanks, Wiggy; I’ll be sure to fill your stocking with something nice this year. (Like a gift card to Micro Center… ’cause, c’mon, really, what kind of gift card can you get a fetus?)

I’m off to do some last minute shopping.  You all have a wonderful and safe holiday.

Aww, man, they killed Danny! (You bastards!)

Listen, God, I know I don’t believe you and whatnot, but that’s cool; we can still be buds, right? Nice. Rock on. So, anyway, as we sip on some gin, maybe some juice, I’m thinking we might be able to barter a bit. How’ bout you return Dan to us and I’ll give you, say, Sheryl Crow? She’s moderately attractive, not a great singer, and did I mention she’s not too difficult to look at?

Not enough? Okay, fine. I was going to offer up Bono, but the Insta-Princess would kill me, and no offense, Your Mightiness, but on a day-to-day basis I tend to fear her more. (See, you might send a lightning bolt and frazzle my fizzle in an instant, but she’d make my expiration date last for daaaays. Ever play Monopoly? Same thing, only with cheese graters.) So, I’ll give you that Crow dame, and you can also have Josh Groban.

I almost said Michael Bolton, but at the last moment I realized Groban’s afro scared me more than Bolton’s bald spot.

So, Crow and Groban? How about it? Truly, they are Leaders of the Bland.

Awaitin’ Your Thumbs-Up,

Skippy

Lest you walk away with an opposite opinion, let me mention for the record that the Insta-Princess and I are fierce warriors. “But, Skippy,” you chuckle, “actions are important here, not words. Anyone can vouch for their own warriorocity, but we require records of deeds and darings. Maybe even a shrunken head or two—we try not to be picky.”

You doubt, oh Thomas, but reel back in horror from these gruesome photographic chronicles:

See what she’s doing? The Insta-Princess uses her charm and attractiveness to lure the tree into a false sense of security. “I love you. You’re pretty and a thing of nature,” she reassures the tree. “But soon,” she whispers with wickedness, “lights and hooks and decorative balls and mini-Santas will hang from your helpless limbs!”

As my partner in the hunt lulls the tree with her words of false love, I sneak up on it and wrestle it to the ground! (In case you’re wondering, that’s what I’m doing in the photo above. Seriously. I’ve no idea why people insist something else is going on.) This particular chase of our wooden Beast Glatisant was fraught with peril; a few times, before I finally sawed through its base, I nearly lost my life. See its brethren trees in the background? Don’t think they didn’t try helping one of their own. They travel in packs, these trees, and if you’re not careful you’ll find one trying to poke you in the eye as you pass by it. (Sometimes, even, piping up in imitation of your wife’s voice saying, “I’m sorry, I forgot to hold the branch for you.”)

In the end, we succeeded with our quest and took our trophy home:

Like the decorations? I know, right, I obviously have an eye for awesome design even before I’ve had a few glasses of Glenfiddich.

Don’t like the decorations? My wife threw them on when I wasn’t looking. “I’m wicked, I’m wicked!” she shouted. “Says so right in this blog entry!”

Oh! By the way, I’ve got a new joke that my wife—in her wickedness—failed to appreciate. “I tried looking up the tree skirt,” I told her. “But all I saw was a buncha fir.”

I know, right, I obviously have an ear for awesome jokes.