James Lileks---Danger To Himself and Others

Especially when he's endangering my continence when reading his account of the 12 Catastrophes of Christmas.

An aperitif:

NINE: the Tree is Dead. I think it died of fright en route to the house, frankly. We gave it water when we put it up, but either it’s on a hunger strike or it expired. Yes, we got a “fresh cut,” but you could say the same thing for the healing powers of a Civil War battlefield amputation. So it’s dead. Someone on TV sneezes, it dumps a bushel of needles. Ah well. Happens every year; it’s absurd to think the tree will remain supple and perky, given all that it’s been through. Sawed from its roots, wrapped in plastic mesh, stacked in a pyramid like some arboreal version of Abu Ghraib – no leash, at least - then auctioned off, impaled in a pan of chlorinated soup. Who can blame it? Makes me feel less guilty about dragging it out for disposal, frankly.