Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Decorations
The door opens and I realize, with horror, that I live next door to Mr. Rogers. "Hello?" Mr. Rogers smiles at me politely, confused. He's wearing a sweater vest, a red plaid one. I thought sweater vests were extinct, like the dodo and the sabre-toothed tiger. "Hi," I say, smiling back. "My name's Tom, I live next door." I point a thumb over my shoulder so that Mr. Rogers will know what next door means. "Ah yes," Mr. Rogers nods. "Come in, neighbor, come in…" "No thanks," I say quickly. I've never trusted the television Mr. Rogers, he's always seemed a little creepy, so I see no reason to trust his twin, either. "I don't want to take up much of your time," I say apologetically. "What can I do for you?" he asks. "Would you like some egg nog?" "No," I say, "No egg nog. I'm here about your Christmas decorations. The lights, in particular." "Ah," Mr. Rogers says proudly. "Do you like them?" "They're very bright," I smile hesitantly. "There's over a thousand of them." "Really?" I ask, pretending to be interested. "I hadn't counted them, but I'm sure you're right." "Do you have your Christmas decorations up?" he asked with sudden enthusiasm. He stuck his head out the door and peered at my house. "Yeah," I said uncertainly, stepping back so he could get a good look. "There's a decoration out there, by the door. You can't see it too well in the dark, but it's there." "What is it?" Mr. Rogers asked me happily, squinting. "I can't make it out." "It's a pumpkin," I said finally, deciding it wouldn't be right to lie. Not so close to Christmas. Mr. Rogers looked at me for clarification. "A Christmas pumpkin," I explained. "I see," Mr. Rogers said. "About your lights," I continued. "Yes," Mr. Rogers smiled proudly. "I turn them on every night at six." "I know," I nodded. "I was driving around the corner the other night when you turned them on." I blinked at the memory. "I almost drove right off the road." "They are impressive," Mr. Rogers grinned. "Yes," I agreed. I was still seeing spots. "So you like them?" he asked. "I like some of them," I admitted. "About…ten percent of them. The rest?" I shrugged. "I'm not so sure you need all one thousand." "Of course I need them," Mr. Rogers said. "It's Christmas." "I'm not saying to take them down," I explained. "If you could just alternate them. Maybe two hundred one night, a different two hundred the next…let some of them breathe." "Breathe?" Mr. Rogers asked, disappointed. "Yeah," I said. "Don't get me wrong, you're saving me a ton of money in electric bills since I don't need to use any of my own lights any more, but…I'm concerned." "Concerned about what?" "You know," I said. "The amount of lights, our proximity to the airport…" "I don't understand," Mr. Rogers shook his head. I finally lost it, and my left eye started to twitch. I hadn't been to sleep in three days, since Mr. Rogers had stolen nighttime. "When those planes come in low," I snapped, "thinking your house is the runway, the landing gear is going to take my roof clean off. And I need my roof. It's starting to get cold, and my roof keeps the heat in my house. Oil prices are phenomenally high this year. Do you see my point?" "It sounds like you don't embrace the spirit of the holiday," Mr. Rogers said crossly. "I embrace the spirit of the holiday," I insisted, pointing at my house. "Didn't you see my pumpkin?" I asked, my eyes wide with indignation. "Fine," he agreed angrily. "I'll turn some of the lights off." Mr. Rogers reached for the doorknob. "Merry Christmas," he snorted, closing the door. "Yeah," I spat, stomping across his yard back to my house. As an afterthought, I punched his plastic life-sized Santa in the face. I hurt my hand on his bulbous nose and Santa never stopped smiling. "Bah humbug," I mumbled. Santa watched happily, rocking a little, as I massaged my sore knuckles and guiltily made my way back home. |
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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