So our new washer got delivered today — and no, it wasn’t a black Friday special. It was special though. I can’t tell you how special, but I’ll be laying awake at night wondering how I will ever repay these nice people for this special gift.
Yet my wife has the gall to tell me this doesn’t count as her Christmas present. So here’s what’s going to happen: I will work so much overtime that I will finally collapse and be rushed to the hospital, where I will miss so much work that I will lose my job, after which they will have to move me to the psyche ward; but once the money flow stops they will kick me out of the psyche ward and I will have to live under the nearest bridge, where I will die from either pneumonia or hypothermia (the coroner will flip a coin and check one, because the state won’t want to waste money on my autopsy).
There will be no funeral, no burial, no tombstone — and no one will ever know that the real cause of death was simply too much Christmas spirit.