Doug Blough

You may wonder why I’ve remained a one-man operation all these years, never marrying nor siring children. Astute readers might recall I once was engaged, and it was right about this time of year I abruptly ended that relationship. I think you’ll understand why once you hear my story.

Things were going well on that first day of Christmas when my true love sent to me a beer fridge and a spare key. Cool; I can always use more room for my adult beverages, and having misplaced my spare key, she had put some thought into that choice. God I loved that woman!

On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me, two fertile doves. OK, I like birds and doves are after all, the symbol of peace and hope. I’d just as soon they weren’t flopping around trying to mate, but nonetheless. On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me, three drenched hens. You ever smelled a wet hen? They were dripping all over the carpet, so I had them, the two blatantly fertile doves, the fridge and the spare key.

She shoulda left it alone right there, but noooo; on the fourth day my true love sends to me, four more appalling birds; I think they might have been buzzards for God’s sake. So now on top of the fertile doves, I got wet hens and four more appalling birds. I’d had just about enough of these foul fowls, which drove me straight to that new beer fridge.

On the fifth day my semi-true love sent to me, five rusted rings, and I have no idea why. I’m not much into bling, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna wear rings that look like they were fished from a septic tank. I started throwing the corroded rings at those amorous doves and yelling, “Hey, not on the recliner!”

On the sixth day of Christmas, she sent me six geese a-laying. Oh yeah, that’s what I need – a bunch of honking geese laying eggs all over the place. Now I’m back at the beer fridge, reminding myself never to give that spare key to my so-called “true love.”

On the seventh day, what shows up but seven swans a-grinning, which can get real irritating when you’re already up to your neck in birds. Then on the eighth day of Christmas, I open my door to eight maids a-milking. Oh, come on in; these cows will give the birds something to roost on in-between laying, dripping and mating! And these old maids were “sneak up on a glass of water” homely yet to boot.

This went on and on. The next two days brought nine gay guys a-dancing, ten nerds a-leaping, and get this — on the eleventh day of Christmas, my idiot love sent to me 11 paupers vaping. Now I got all these idiots a-dancin’ and prancin’, gooses honking, doves romping with feathers flying everywhere, and downstairs neighbors start banging on their ceiling. I’ll probably get evicted and God knows what my clueless-love has in store for the last day. The beer fridge is nearly empty by this point.

Sure enough, on the twelfth day of Christmas, my pending ex-love sent to me 12 bums a-mooching Are you kidding me?!! I can barely make rent and she thinks I might welcome sponging paupers and homeless guys? Now I was royally chapped. All I wanted for Christmas was a little peace and quiet, the beer fridge, spare key and possibly a Slinky. Now you see why I had been hesitant to set a wedding date?

On the thirteenth day of Christmas, I drove to the crazy giver’s house and shot her 13 times. In my defense, thanks to the new beer fridge, I was drunker than a baker’s dozen of Irishmen a-toasting.