The Twelve Days of Christmas

By the twelfth night, by my count, my “true love” had deposited onto my doorstep:

  • twelve partridges and matching pear trees;
  • twenty-two turtle doves;
  • thirty French hens, all crowing for just the faintest whiff of a rooster;
  • thirty-six robins trained to sing thirty-six different songs;
  • forty faux-gold rings he’d won by playing Skee-Ball;
  • forty-two geese busting out eggs like nobody’s business;
  • forty-two swans, but no pool to put them in;
  • forty women in sexy maid outfits, all because of the one time I commented positively on his porn selection;
  • thirty-six ballroom dancers, who refused to cut a rug because they didn’t like the selection on my iPod, and because they didn’t like my rug, the bitches;
  • thirty clones of that chick who sings the “And we’ll never be royals” song, which I told True Love I hate, but does he listen?;
  • twenty-two potheads, their elaborate bongs, and all the weed a girl could want, which would have been nice if I didn’t detest the smell of that shit; and,
  • twelve drummers with nothing to bang on but me, which was actually a relief after everything else, including all those fucking birds.

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