American Observer - December 6, 2007
Christmas Eve Football
by
H.V. Barton
A stunningly beautiful Malibu, California Christmas Eve morning was shattered by a
rude and inappropriate guttural grunt and the odor of flame broiled tobacco; which
announced the arrival of Helen, my wife's morbidly obese fifty something mother, spoiling my effort to fix myself
breakfast.
"I just came down those stairs, the same one's I've been telling you to fix
for over a year and I
almost fell," she announced. "I'm having Tiffany add that to the complaint."
I stopped stirring batter as Helen handed me a document. She never got the hang of using a word processor, computer,
or a printer, even though she went through a dozen or so reams of paper and hundreds of cartridges American Express billed me for. As usual everything on the document was in color.
Most likely the only thing she ever got the hang of using was
invective, sarcasm and four-letter words.
"Here," she said. "Tiffany is leaving you and filing for divorce. Tiff's already left for the airport, we are going to Cancun for Christmas. I thought you should know before the bill arrives. You'll probably be served day after tomorrow though, since tomorrow's Christmas. I tried to get her to hire somone to leave the notice under the Christmas Tree since it's what you deserve."
"I got a cab waiting outside, I took a hundred from your wallet and I'm headed to the airport," she wheezed. "Tiff said to tell you Merry Christmas and not to worry about the Ferrari. She's leaving it in short term, we'll pick it up when we get back from Cancun."
After a brief respite to clear her throat from a cigarette induced coughing fit, she lit another and continued. "It will be included in the settlement anyhow. You should have bought a bigger car. It's probably not worth too much anyhow. Not many people drive a Ferrari anyway in case you didn't know. Besides you bought
it so I couldn't go places with you and Tiff. I know it. I hate that car and I've hated living with you for the past two years. My room was never big enough from the start plus those stairs suck. You should have had them put in an elevator for me."
"Merry Christmas," she spat as she waddled out of the kitchen. "Oh, and you need to be out when we get back in a month, try to fix those stairs first, if you're capable, which I doubt," she cursed
vilely and loudly as God smiled upon me and she mercifully left.
The worst thing I remember about that Christmas Eve; and brood about it heavily each and every
year around this time, is that I burned the damned pancakes and the Raider's lost.