Every once in a while, some luckless knuckhead, some hapless sap will ask me, “Say, BUMD, what’s your wish for Christmas? What do you want this year?” And I tell them.
My one wish on Christmas Eve is as plain as it can be. All I want for Christmas is not to hear the song about my my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth. Why in the hell was sister Susie sitting on a thistle, and why would I want to say anything about it anyway? If I’m mithing my teeth, my lipth are thealed. Lithp something oneth, why lithp it again?
Even the jokes we make to the kids when they do, in fact, lose their central incisors simultaneously, are lame. “Oh, well, looks like you’ll have something to wish for come Christmastime! Ho ho! Ho!” Why? Because the song sucks.
It just thuckth.