So now that I finally have the Visa bills paid from the summer vacation it's time for Christmas. Oh the joys! Like most of the Males of the species I don't tend to shop for Christmas until the last minute. Frankly, I didn't even realize that it was December until it was far too late to avoid it. This means that me and several thousand other people (congratulations ladies, you're catching up with the men on this one) have to crowd into the Megastore around the 23rd. The only good news is that when you leave shopping to the last minute you don't really have to think about what to get people - they get whatever you can grab.

Grabbing it is one thing but trying to hold on to it through a line that seems to go forever is another. I imagine Hell is much like a checkout counter on Dec 23rd - filled with hot, overdressed people, still sweating from wrestling the last Bill Clinton action figure away from a guy with no neck and bad breath.

Naturally, there are no shopping carts, so you balance your gifts, like a demented Sherpa, on various body parts at your disposal. Your hands have long since lost their function, locked in a paralyzing rictus around the "Picachu with the blue eyes, not the green eyes, because he has the super powers not the green eyed one..."

Slowly the line moves forward as the manager corrects the mistake of the dunce that was hired to help during the Christmas rush. Then you get to enjoy the 17 mile trek through the snow and ice to find your car - which will then proceed at a speed of 7 inches per hour until you get out of the mall lot. Meanwhile, the jackass behind you is trying to play Jingle Bells on his car horn assuming you're travelling at a geological pace just for seasonal hijinks.

As you pass your local watering hole you think "Damn, I could use a drink." But just as the most stressful, annoying, horrific, festival of capitalism is starting to peak, the police decide to take that last little pleasure from you. If you even think about having a drink on the way home some goose stepping Gestapo goon will pop out of the ground and give you the business end of a breathalyzer.

Normally the one drink and brief "Hello!" with your comrades is a small enjoyable ritual, but now you're petrified that the armed gentlemen of the festively challenged persuasion are going to take you away and shoot you for even thinking about it. Don't get me wrong I know that if you drink you shouldn't drive - but blessed mother of Joseph, the odd drink to relax is a Right, isn't it?

So you get home elated slightly that you got the shopping done and you managed to get out of the fucking parking lot before the next year. However, now you have to wrap the shit. Do yourself a favour; get the cheerful evil elves - yes, the ones that seem to be taking overdoses of recreational happy pharmaceuticals - the gift wrap people, to do what they do, because your wife/kids/dog/cat have all been at the gift wrap at home and the only bits left are small triangular scraps.

If you didn't get the gifts wrapped at the store you will have to do one of two things at this point - go back to the store for gift wrap (hint: there is none left and the stores are busy putting out the Easter decorations) Or, wrap all the presents in newspaper that you managed to fish out of the recycling bin from under the leaking tomato soup can.

The day before Christmas arrives and now the hard part starts, at least if you're a parent. You have to GET THE KIDS TO BED!!! The kids by this point have enough energy to power the larger portion of the northern hemisphere and your wife (who put up with them while you were shopping) is sick of peeling them of the walls/floors/ceiling as they are bounce around. Threats don't work, reasoning doesn't work, yelling doesn't work - nothing works - expect eggnog spiked heavily with rum, gin and vodka.

This is, of course, what you feed the kids.

After a few last bounces they should start to settle down and may even fall asleep. Under the tree is where you usually find one or two of your offspring, arms clutching a newsprint and tomato soup stain wrapped box with his or her name on it.

Now that you have put the drunken midgets to bed, you still have to do the Santa thing - the stocking stuffers and the presents under the tree. Between getting the evil-offspring-of-the-she-devil (as you have come to regard them) to bed and the other activities (cleaning up the mess from the pre-Santa rush - like a sugar rush but about 17 billion times more powerful) it is now after midnight.

You crawl in the sack and doze off - after what seems like a nanosecond (it wasn't really that long) you hear the glee filled voices of the children - they're alive! Using your fingernails like claws you crawl from the bed and with one eye cracked slightly open, get dressed. You put your sweat pants on inside out, or try to put both legs down the same leg hole. You drag your butt down the stairs and don't even stop to yell at the children - you need coffee, now, or death for all in the house. You get the coffee and decide to let your family live another day. You and your wife settle down on the sofa to watch a new form of mayhem undreamed of even by professional wrestling promoters.

A tornado of paper explodes as the Santa rush kicks in (also like a sugar rush but 37 gazillion times more powerful.) Boxes, cats, and even light articles of furniture start flying as the kids open their presents. The noise is worse than a soccer match between England and Scotland tied nil-nil with 3 minutes to go - Scotland in possession. Valuable assembly instructions and rebate certificates are trampled underfoot, never to be seen again, while the all-important Nut 4 and Bolt 26 have been consumed by the dog.

Slowly the mayhem subsides and the kids quiet down - one of them, usually the youngest, comes over and kisses your cheek - "I love you daddy". This is when the depression should start - you just realized your going to do it all again next year - but somehow it doesn't. Merry Christmas all and a Happy New Year.

Rob and Dave