Here's the thing. You wanted the new G.I. Joe with Super Barbie-Banging Action Penis. Everyone knew it. How could Mom and Dad not know? You gave up the Santa shit years ago, everyone knows the score. G.I. Joe with Super Barbie-Banging Action Penis is the greatest and most necessary thing ever to be marketed. It's just not possible that they'd give you anything else.
That's what you're thinking, as you open the last box--everything else under the tree is Sparkle Ponies for your damn sister--the box that must, by necessity, by deduction, by all that is holy, contain G.I. Joe with Super Barbie-Banging Action Penis. You already dug out the socks and underwear and the little shirt/sweater-vest combination that Mom thought was cute, and the scarf from Aunt Ethel, who's been asleep in the rocker in the corner for the last hour but just woke up with a thundering fart by way of establishing that she hain't dead yet. This has to be Barbie-Bangin' Joe, here.
But it's not. It's that lame-ass Radio-Controlled Sea Monkey kit that takes an odd number of D cells that it burns through in four minutes. Dammit.
Enjoy your Scooter Libby indictment, kiddies. And your extended Karl Rove investigation.
Oh, and your special bonus Priscilla Owens nomination, a delightful geri-fart of a gift from your 93-year-old Aunt Ethel.
Yep. Merry Fucking Fitzmas.