Dear diary,
Lord help us but its here again. Back once again like the renegade master (don’t judge me, mother controls my play list, and unlike her waistline, her ears are still stuck where she was in the 90’s).
Yep, that “most wonderful time of the year” when frankly all humans lose what’s left of their sanity, decorum and more importantly, kindness. That’s a little harsh, I hear you all cry, for Kissmuss is the time of giving and of playing loving families, even though in reality you’d quite like to beat Aunty Betty to death with the board game that you’re playing for the billionth time.
And, dearest diary, this is where we just have to disagree.
For many of us, Kissmuss is a time when our usually kind, caring bringers of hay turn into raving lunatics, hell bent on destroying our self-esteem like a Disney-esque villain. Stamping on our street cred with more fervour than a fat fighter tackling a pizza-filled piñata, and ruining more love lives than Fifty Shades of Grey. I can only assume on the 1st of December some sort of festive-induced brain fog descends, which makes seemingly normal people think that decorating ½ a tonne (3/4 in my case) of highly evolved flight animal in brightly coloured tinsel in any way belongs in the camp of “good idea”. A good idea is to stay in one’s stable when it’s raining, or to have extra food when it’s cold.
Over the years that I have been saddled (literally and figuratively) with the mothership, I have learned many many things – many of them not repeatable in polite company. But my responses to the Christmas period are some that I can and indeed will share.
First off, we all know that Santa Paws is an elusive creature, hard to find and even harder to ever see, let alone interact with. So, make like the red-clothed recluse and play hard to get. Or find. Or catch. I.e. run away. Or around. Or up and down. It doesn’t matter how much they shout about your dubious ancestry, threaten you with decreased life expectancy or indeed stressage, cajole you or attempt to corral you, just keep moving and whatever you do, don’t fall for the old “bucket rattle” trick, or before you can say Rudolf, you will be tied up at their mercy.
If you are one of our slower moving brethren or unfortunate enough to have a mothership who moves like a hippo (surprisingly fast over short distances for such a big unit), then it stands to reason at some point you’re going to be caught. At this point, frankly you are doomed but there are ways of limiting the damage. First off, I take the view that if you’re going to dress me like a tree then I’m going to make like one – and plant. Seriously, the only way you are going to save anything of your credibility or indeed the inner portions of your soul is to take root. At least that way the only person who can testify to just how daft you look is your evil owner. Oh and the umpteen hundred followers they have on spinstergram, but now might not be the time to think about that.
Very akin to mother’s approach to dieting, I work on the idea moving is something I’m just not capable of doing – at least not without a high level of encouragement. Hers is apparently Colin Farrell – mine is having the tinsel removed from my tail…
To be fair, what I have not yet mentioned is antlers. Now to me that one is easy. You dress me like a flighty, bouncy, four-legged Ferrari with the survival instincts of a depressed lemming and well, ookkkkaaayyy then. Hold on tight, because I can do prancer and dancer all day long. And this approach fits everything else.
Dress me in red – I will be a devil,
Dress me in green – I will be a grinch,
Tinsel me – see tree approach above,
Antler me – remember what happened to Bambi’s mother…
Dress me as a snowman – I will let it (and you) go.
You get the idea. The point being that we don’t deserve this ritual humiliation and frankly, enough is enough. If you all want to wander about looking like something from a Hallmark card then you go and fill your boots. Just don’t get us involved.
And if the above doesn’t put you off then simply remember this. Revenge is a dish best served cold and when spring is in the air, your head is filled with ideas of your successes of the summer and your heart is bursting with the joy of riding again after the long, dark nights – just remember we are patient. Spring freshness? Delayed December decision response my friends.
So don’t be a d*ck: ditch the December decorations and we in turn won’t murder you come March.
Think about it.
Laters,
Hovis
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