Homburger's Xmas Hamburgers

Mom and I went to Phil Homburger's house for an Xmas Xtravaganza. As we got out of the car, Mom was anxious that I had the gift she had needlessly bought for Amy and Andy. 

"Do you have the chocolate-covered Scotties?" Mom said.

"Scotty? Yes, and the Peppermint Uhuras. Wait. What are we talking about?"

"The scotties!"

"Ach, help me! I'm covered in chocolate goodness!"

"The biscotti?"

"That's it! What did you think I said?"

"Never mind."

I grabbed the box. On the way, very slowly, to the front door, I told Mom that Mark had texted me a Peanuts Merry Christmas.

"His penis? He sent you his penis?"

"Yes, Mom. He sent me a picture of his penis, the greatest, and most surprising, gift of all. Then again, maybe it was from Brett Favre. Who's to say?"

"Please stop talking. It's Christmas."

An hour later we made it to the house and went inside where Mom warmly greeted Steve, grabbing his hand and telling him not to be so standoffish!

"Mom, Mom," I said, leaning in, as Mom continued to paw Steve, "That's not Andy, that's his brother, Steve."

"Please, have a Scotty!" Mom yelled cheerfully. "We have Scotties for everyone!"

"Help," Steve said, bewildered and merry.

We joined the Homburger matriarch at the table, and Mom proceeded to tell her about her favorite Star Trek episodes, since she brought the Scotties. Carol was just as bewildered as her many sons in trying to process this invasion of Johnsons in their usually-sedate Homburger Christmases. 

"Beam me up," I said, to gales of silence. "Am I right? Is this thing on?"

A good time was had by all, with Liam and Alex rosy-cheeked from dreaming of sugar plums and prologues from Great Novels, until I brought up Ruth and ol' Saint Nick did the needle scratch sound, which I really wish he'd stop with that shit. Then we discussed Dr. Van Pelt's very French Christmas and how the French are better than us.

"They make excellent biscottis," Mom said. "Please have one, Andy. They're from the Rigel cluster!"

Phil at last came over and quietly told us in no uncertain terms to leave the premises, and we got the hint. Mom and I went back to her apartment at Brookdale where she wanted to show me something she had written. I knew what this meant. Time to play psychologist (sans penis).

"Ha ha, I think you have pantophobia, Mom! 

Just my two cents worth."

Mom showed me the letter she had written to Chris. It was about how he NEVER HAD A CHANCE. I looked over the shaky, wavery, scrawled handwriting while Mom anxiously awaited feedback.

"Well?" Mom said. 

"Maybe have Riffel turn it into a screenplay? There are certainly a number of old crimes in this. But I think it's good to write, isn't it, Mom? Don't you think it's therapeutic?"

"What? I wasn't writing for me. You always make it about me. But do you think Chris will get anything out of it? I think it's important he understands some things."

"Sure. It's nice. Mm. Anyway, that will be five cent." I held out my hand.

Then came the gift-giving portion of this post, what every kid reading this has been waiting for. Mom pulled out two large, festive sacks. 

"The first thing is a disaster, a complete disaster," Mom said. "I'm sure you won't like it."

"Well, I do love disasters for gifts," I said. I pulled out a plaid hoodie sweater vest peacoat thing. "It's nice. Thank you."

"I'm sure you'll throw it away. But it wasn't cheap, you know."

"No, it's nice. Thank you."

"But will you give the letter to Chris? Maybe I shouldn't. I don't know."

"It's fine. I'm sure he'll be glad to get it."

Cut to: Chris looking over the letter and shaking his head.

"What is this shit?"

He balled it up. Then he set it on fire. A knock came at the door. It was Brett Favre. While we snuggled on the couch with cocoa, we watched as Hall of Fame quarterback Brett Favre got out his junk and pissed on the letter. It was a holiday miracle, except the opposite of that.

I turned to the camera. "And we come full circle, folks, somehow! Go long!"