Fashion show is the second part of Christmas Day, when we eat the morning bagels and drink coffee and watch our chicks parade around in their new duds. My fist wife, bless her soul, had the ass of a Marvel cartoon character, the ass that inspired Italians to sculpt their statues the way they did. She could rock a potato sack. My second wife was different, and this part of the day I spent in dejected terror, stunned that I had wed a 13 year old Nintendo kid or a lesbian Claymation studio security guard. There were women in between, but I used to drink more than I do now and they couldn’t all have been named Gladys. This morning, watching my forest elf show off her new pants, I’m struck again by the unlikely parameters of the human metabolism. I saw that 100 pound woman eat half a pig last night. Frightening and adorable. But here is my almost perfectly useless Christmas morning observation- songs. Christmas morning fashion show can be retooled and used as a test to probe the infinite futures, my brothers. Case in point- the Italian actress tolerated my scatological Christmas tune outbursts, wherein I usually substitute profanity and gibberish for many of the words to ditties like ‘Carnival Bells Are Ringing.’ Officer Claymation could shoot snakes from her eyes, and she would if I made a peep during fashion show, which also involved whiskey and crying. As I mentioned, I thankfully have no memory of the activities of the Gladys units, but I’m certain that this singing we not well received. But this morning, as I watched the parade of new pants, the tops, as I was subjected to a detailed analysis of fabrics and buttons and more, all the while bursting into disruptive, semi-unstable Bad Brains versions of ‘Rudolph The Red Dick Reindeer’ well, nothing but smiles. All is right with the cosmos. The many futures smile back in my direction. Begin now my brothers in arms! Its not too late! Sing now and divine your future…

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