My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has been tossing out a few hints that she might be supplying me with a custom-made, hand-made, very special, personally-tailored Xmas gift this year. It seems to be the start of a new tradition for her, and for me. Last year she presented me with a bag of home-made fertilizer, crafted from curated dung discovered in the Eeeps Family Zoological Garden and Livestock Pen, with, as she noted somewhat cryptically, "a little something extra from me to you." And of course words could not fully capture my feelings at the moment, but she's hoping that this year will be as big a treat for me and for all the hand-crafted-dung lovers out there. She said.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, says that with the holiday season approaching, and the imminent need for truffles, I'll have to up my game, slip into my swine suit, get my snout to the ground, and make myself useful. Or else.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants me to "do the honors" this year and grease the Xmas hog. It's a thing with her family, a tradition, an annual event, an escape from the usual holiday humdrum. I, of course, am honored. The hog may be as well, but I'm not so likely to know about that, considering the cross-species language hurdles. First the hog is greased (my part), then released. Following that comes "The Grabation". Anyone who can catch said hog and immobilize it for a full 60 seconds gets dibs on having it for lunch, as said meal's main culinary feature. Failing capture and detention, the hog is set free, but pursued as an alien invader during the Eeeps Family ShootemUp Daze in mid February, when everyone is even more bored and seeking ever more fervently for an excuse to have a hog roast, which is the usual outcome. (Except for the "Cousin Homer von Dooter Eeeps" event back in '37, which we'll just not think about right now.)
So, my love, Echinoia Eeeps, is practically panting with heaving anticipation over what sort of Xmas gift, if any, I might be blessing her with this year. This is typically a situation which provokes a good deal of bullet-sweating because a person has only one chance, once a year, to get this right, and dear (and powerful) Echinoia can be ever so quick to anger if she should feel slighted, misunderstood, or undervalued in the least little way, a lesson that I have survived learning and do not now or ever wish to experience a refresher course in, so I'm thinking it over quite carefully while there is still time to do so, well before the day when I might need professional medical attention following a poorly thought-through decision.
Traditionally Xmas in Eeepsland is a time best spent with family, when cursing, loud farting, and gunfire are typically frowned on, especially indoors, and when everyone gathers 'round the table on the big day for beer, followed by the annual food fight. Last one standing gets to take home the cake, if there is any.
Xmas is growing near, and the sounds you hear are from the Eeeps Family target range where they are sharpening their shooting for the annual reindeer slaughter. Fun for all, usually. Except the reindeer, I expect.
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Me? Still deliriously in love. Or something that feels just as sticky.
