Do you know what "flocking" is?
Apparently it’s this procedure where they spray your Christmas tree with some sort of carcinogenic Styrofoam-looking petroleum byproducts to make it look like it’s got snow on it.
It looks like "snow" maybe to Stevie Wonder.
It looks like "snow" maybe to Robert Downey, Jr., but what doesn’t?
I’d never heard of it until recent years but suddenly it’s being presented as if it’s some Currier and Ives-like time-honored tradition going back to the Pilgrims, if not further.
Now they’re trying to make us feel like if we don’t get our trees flocked, we somehow don’t love the baby Jesus enough.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
It’s not as if the wise men came from The East bearing gifts of frankincense and myrrh and a flocking device.
Now people are acting as if flocking is something you’ll find in a verse of The Twelve Days 0f Christmas. "Nine trees a-flocked…"
Could be for all I know. That one loses me at seven lords a-leaping.
I prefer Christmas carols that are over before Lent. That one’s like the Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on The Wall of Christmas carols.
I thought flocking was something that birds of a feather did.
Now friends call to say, "Shift! Let’s go a-wassailing and then buy a Christmas tree and take it to Ye Olde Flocker to get it flocked!"
Right. "Buy" a Christmas tree. I’ll be headed to the nearest city park after dark with a chainsaw like I always do. You observe your traditions and I’ll observe mine.
We honor diversity at Shift Villa. Leave me the flock alone.
Then it’s off to the mall for some Christmas shoplifting and to let the kids sit on some unemployed alcoholic’s lap for a spell while making their unreasonable demands and, when things don’t pan out quite the way they’d hoped on Christmas morning, blame his ass.
"WAAA! Where’s my dolly?"
"Apparently you weren’t good enough, sweetheart. Take it up with Santa."
"WAAA! Where’s my Big Wheel?"
"Well, Shift, Jr., maybe next year you’ll be a little more careful when playing with Daddy’s bong."
Run along, now. Daddy’s getting hammered.
"WAAA! Where’s Mommy?"
Let’s just say Mommy’s Christmas to-do list for Daddy this year contained one item too many.
"Did you remember to flock the tree, douchebag?"
Let’s just say the investigation is "ongoing."
Let’s just tell the authorities Daddy had gone a-wassailing at the time of Mommy’s disappearance and offer them a nice gift basket for the station house: the annual Shift Family yuletide "Basket O’ Mad Dog," a festive assortment of fortified wines, and industrial-strength cleaning solvents.
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