I Am Destructo

Sometimes my brother and sister and I and our respective spouses play a game called What's Your Superpower? My brother-in-law, for example, is The Napman. He can sleep anywhere, on a moment's notice, on command. In the army, he used to sleep on marches -- while marching.

Me? I break things. I can break anything. I don't do it on purpose, it just happens. Put something breakable in my general vicinity, and chances are dollars to donuts it won't escape my presence whole. I've even broken unbreakable things. Once, I dropped a German-made paring knife that Johnny had carried with him on the Magic Bus to a kibbutz in Israel and back again -- that was thirty years ago; he'd been using the parer ever since -- I dropped it on a wooden floor and the blade snapped clear in two. Not a good night in the AssVac, that one wasn't.

So what I'm trying to say is, my Christmas decorations aren't all in mint condition, but that doesn't mean I do not love them all the same. In fact, maybe it means I love them more.

To wit:

This door-hanging bell-ringer was my parents'. It survived the house I grew up in for forty years. Cats and dogs and kids and horses. Three years ago, I don't know what they were thinking, they handed it down to me. The first time I hung it up, one of its three bells came off in my hand. I still have the bell, and its respective clanger, but I haven't dared attempt to fix it out of fear I'll foul up the whole thing even more.

I don't know how this pitcher broke. It's been that way as long as I remember. I've never used it except as decoration, and for a couple years the broken piece was kicking around inside. It's not there any longer -- I probably at one point just admitted I was never going to get around to fixing it and threw the damn piece out.


This guy's supposed to be pointing and saying "This is your future, Ebenezer Scrooge!" -- or, rather, I suppose, implying it -- but he's missing his pointer-finger. Coolest Christmas Decoration ever. My sister gave it to me like a hundred years ago, when I was in my wear-nothing-but-black phase. In other words, my twenties.

Country Bumpkin Santa is not so much broken as maybe just a little drunk. He can't seem to hang on to his hobby horse. Then again, maybe it's the horse who's got a problem.

Wooden Snowman here was armless when I bought him. That's why I bought him, as a matter of fact. I thought he was different and quirky. Turns out he's just broken. It wasn't till I got him home I noticed the holes in his shoulders where his arms are supposed to go. No wonder he only cost a dollar.

Mini-Santy lost an arm somehow between Christmases of 2005 and '6. Probably because, since he's only two inches high and made of resin, I figured he didn't need to be carefully packed. Tell it to his wee arm lying on the table. Maybe someday I'll get around to fixing him. Or just throw out the arm.

This dude's missing a finger, too. Off of that forward fist, there. Not sure what it was intended to imply. Aside-the-nose laying, perhaps?


As you can see, we have a lot of Santas. Johnny and I used to buy one every Christmas, usually at the Christmas Tree Shop or someplace like that, and usually for under twenty bucks or so. We just couldn't see spending any more than that on something that was destined to be broken. But we called off that tradition a couple years ago, when the last Ho-Ho that we purchased didn't even make it to the car.

Maybe Wonder Woman can fix them all -- if we can rescue her from Christmas Island!

She's not broken, I just wanted to show her off.

Ooh, and I found this packed in the attic with the decorations...

There are two!

They're not broken, either. Anybody want to venture a guess at what they are? Hint: it isn't poop!

And this scenario is only broken in the nether regions of my very soul.

It's just not right. Electric sex should never be that close to Baby Jebo.

Good lord, I hope there's not going to be an "accident."