They're a lot younger than I am; Kevin is six, and Kayla is nine, so I can see why they would be excited about an elf figurine. I believed in Santa once too, right before my parents shattered my dreams and aspirations of one day being a sleigh mechanic for Santa by telling me of his nonexistence. This is always a bitter and magic-less time of year for me, and I haven't really had a good Christmas since my 28th. I love my mom, she seems really excited about this Elf toy, but the back story she gives about #Hubert# explaining his existence as a pawn and rat to the big man up North is total BS. She's got this massive Cheshire cat grin on her face as she tells them how this smug little Brownie relays every action in the house to Saint Nick as 'good' or 'bad.' He can't talk, but you can talk to him. Reminds me of Uncle Owen right before they took him off life support. Kevin and Kayla are awestruck, these massive Rockwellian smiles pasted where their mouths should be, fully believing that every good thing they do will result in more Christmas loot...
I'm a little ticked. My mom comes in, interrupts Archer, and is now lying her face off to these innocent little children, who fully believe the fabricated story she has just pitched to them. She reminds me so much of a used car salesman right now that I start having flashbacks. So she places this Product of China on the mantlepiece, sitting right above my stocking. I would move it, but I'm already halfway through this can of chips, and I don't want to wash my hands until after I've finished them.
He's been sitting there for ffifteen minutes, and I'm already sick of him. What a little snitch, tattling to Santa whether they've been good or bad. I don't know who invented this little trinket, but their interpretation of Christmas Cheer is obviously warped, rendering the morning of the 25th completely dependent on behavioral absolutes. What a tool. The two K's have gone to play Wii or something, but promised my mother they'd come back and tell 'Hubert' goodnight. She's in the back room, reading Fifty Shades of Grey for the 4th time.
So I get a bright idea to cure Hubert of his cheery smile. I don't like it, it's way too big for his face, and extremely unnatural. Really, who has cheek muscles that big? Maybe Schwarzenegger, in the middle of that phase where he would chew Double Bubble and shoot up simultaneously. So I go the the kitchen drawer, open it up, and behold, a Super Sharpie in plain sight. Popping the lid off, I make a beeline straight for Hubert and that stupid little face of his, and I draw a Stalin 'stache and some excessively sharp teeth. I'm cracking myself up as I transform this cheery little face into a bad trip of a Toy Story character. Finishing, I return the marker and go play WOW in my room.
About half an hour later and I hear my name screeched through the hallway two octaves higher than notes should go, and I sheepishly trudge into the living room. My mother is standing there, hands on hips, actual tears on her face, completely overreacting and exaggerating how I've ruined Christmas for the kids, and that she would have expected that sort of behavior out of me in my mid 20's. I sigh as I walk to the kitchen, retrieve a magic eraser, and annoyingly direct myself to the mantle, where the nightmare face of Hubert glares at me.
I hold him in one hand, the other furiously scrubbing to remove the blatant Communism above his lip. I pause for a moment to check my progress, and his face is gone. Just gone. No smug little grin, no caricatural eyelashes, nothing. Nothing there but flesh colored plastic. Apparently these magic erasers are a little more potent than I expected. Mom's really lost it now. I get lectured, grounded, and sent to my room, where I am currently writing this review. Oh, and my mom says I have to buy a new one.
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