Where is that damned kid with the turkey?

I woke this morning after having been visited by three ghosts in the night. They didn't try to affect change in me, they just sat and dumped on me about how horrible it is to be dead and haunt the living and stuff. One of them drank my entire bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

I tried to throw open the window like everyone always does on Christmas morning, in so many stories, but I hurt my hand on the screws before I realized it was probably unwise to sacrifice the seaworthiness of a vessel responsible for the lives of several thousand people for the sake of a Dickensian Christmas gesture.

There was no boy outside to shout to anyway, no one to head down to the butcher shop to deliver the prize turkey there to the Cratchit family. Just a few vendors from Diamonds International and some people who were paid to dress as a Mariachi band to take pictures with hung over tourists.

I dressed and stepped off the ship and out into the snow, except there was no snow, so I just stepped into the nothing.

Then I strolled down the street doffing my top hat at passersby, gleefully shouting "A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU, SIR!" (or MA'AM, depending)... mainly gaining strange looks and "Que?" from people on the street.

A small boy gazed up at me and said "Dad, look, it's the singer!"

I tossed him a farthing, which in stories sounds like a pleasant gesture but in reality farthings weighed in excess of seventy pounds. It knocked him flat and paramedics were called. Luckily, I was off into the crowd before I could be identified.

I strolled off toward the local pub to wish the regulars a very happy season indeed, and eventually arrived st Starbucks where I unsheathed my Inspiron (not a euphemism for anything else) and sat down here for my Christmas breakfast of Panna con Xioccolatta e venti mocha latte and began to post forth here, blog blog blog.

God bless us, everyone.

Ho ho ho.

Tonight, two shows.