My only granddaughter, god’s most precious and most perfect creation, a gift to me from angels above, asked me for only one thing this Christmas: an X-Box 360. And even though I’m on a fixed income and can barely afford my Zocor and Celebrex, I aim to get her one. I’ve been watching the television and hearing about how they’re expecting record sales, possibly even a shortage. I called all the local retailers and inquired about putting one aside. But those scum bastard sons of bitches said they couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to the other customers they told me. Fair? What about my precious, my sweet granddaughter, my honey? Is it fair to her that she should have to go without?

Is it fair that because I’m on Social Security, some fatherless, rat-tailed little heathen is going to get my baby’s X-Box instead? No, it isn’t and I’m not going to let that happen. I admit I’m at a disadvantageous position. I should’ve poisoned all of my candy on Halloween, lowering the demand. That’s okay.

I’ve still got my driver’s license, thanks to the state. What if there should be an unfortunate accident, an unprecedented local tragedy? And at this most special time, Christmas? Oh, it’s too horrible to imagine. Almost. Say, a Toys’R’Us massacre. I’ll plow my Lincoln right through the front door and move aisle by aisle, mowing down mother and daughter, father and son indiscriminately. Even if they catch me, I’ll throw on the waterworks. “I’m old, so very, very old and enfeebled, officers. I was disoriented. I thought I was on the interstate in a hailstorm.”

I can be methodical, too. It doesn’t have to be all in one fell swoop. I can pick the kids off one by one, in the morning on their way to a friend’s. Drifting a little too far into the breakdown lane or riding up onto the sidewalk. Or lure some of them into my house to help me with some lifting, with the promise of fresh-baked cookies. My cane sword would go through their soft little bellies so easily

I could waylay a group of them on their way home from school. I’ll gouge out their eyes and spit in the sockets, pull out their teeth and burn their dismembered remains. Then I’ll make some soap from their ashes and cleanse myself ritually with a sponge bath. Or make gift baskets with it instead, little angel soaps. So gentle on the skin it would be. My sister loves getting little soaps for Christmas. They’re very popular. I could start my own business maybe, there’re so many little children around.

This is my warning to all of you out there, hoping, thinking you’re going to get your no-good, gas-huffing, sex maniac child one of these X-Boxes. I’m not farting around—not metaphorically anyway. I don’t care one whit about sending your babies to hell. If you see an X-Box sitting on the shelves in the next few weeks, keep walking. Or, be a dear and drop it off at my house. My legs aren’t what they used to be.