Wheee! That was fun. After skating for two hours I'm dizzy, and in desperate need of a blood sugar fix. There's a rather mysterious cafe up the street that looks like it might have decent seafood. Mmmmm.

But before I go there, I have got to check out this most interesting Santa.

The line isn't two bad. Only two children - apparently on their own, two gorgeous wome dressed in bizarre luxury, and a scruffy looking guy carrying a battered doctor's satchel. My turn comes in no time.

I don't worry about sitting in Santa's lap. This guy - if he is a guy - looks like he could sling a pickup over his shoulder. I settle in and hurriedly try to settle my gift priorities.

"Have you been good, little girl," asks Santa, his ruby eyes all a-glitter.

I think a moment. "Well, I've been very good at what I do."

"Excellent! And what would you like for Christmas?" I detect a faint, mechanical hum beneath the booming voice.

"I would love a crushed velvet suit in forest green, a shiny new set of surgical knives, and a state of the art entertainment system, but if all or any of these items are beyond my read, I would cheerfully settle for the collected works of Edward Gorey."

"Every little girl loves Gorey! Merry Christmas!"

That must be my cue to leave. Feeling slightly tipsy, I head towards the cafe.

Oh, it's here! It's here! Oh frabjous day!

I madly tear the paper of the humongous package that is dominating my sitting room, carefully avoiding the WARNING: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS. SERIOUSLY, DON'T EVEN TRY TO PEEK. AND FORGET ABOUT TRYING TO SHAKE ME, OR X-RAY ME written large on each side. Because, honestly, how often are those cautions accurate? Only 60-70% of the time, max.

I wad the paper up and jam in the cold hearth, it will hide the evidence make good kindling.

I look at it. Then I look at it again. Then I look at it some more.

It's a thing of absolute beauty.

When I was six, Santa gifted me with a Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop. You would fill these little, hollow people with Playdoh, sit them in a barber chair, and turn a crank that forced a plastic cylinder up their asses. This caused the Playdoh to rupture like little spaghetti snakes through the follicles drilled into their heads and gave them 'hair' which you would then cut and/or style as you fancied. Looking back, I can see that it's just a massive metaphor for sexual awakening; but at the time I just liked Playdoh, you know?

Anyway, Santa came through for me once more. I am now the proud possessor of a Fuzzy Pumper Orthanc; complete with mud pits, slime, and white paint. Oh, and a miniature forge so I can arm my fighting Uruk-Hai; how cute. At long last I can build an army worthy of Mordor.

I reach for the instructions; I want to make sure that I'm doing this right. Feh. Playdoh not included. Crap. I'll go to the store tomorrow.

Delayed gratification is sweeter, my ass.

Hell. Yes.

Damn it, Elena, PlayDoh was one of my last innocent childhood memories.

Canadian raccoons will eat PlayDoh, if they can't find anything else around the campsite.

Hello??? Play Doh tastes GOOD!

The streets are crowded in Sang Sacre. I debate, should I wait for a bus or ride my unicorn. What the hell, he could probably use the exercise..and it's definitely faster.

You'd think even in Sang Sacre that people would get so tired of The Two Towers that we wouldn't need The Palace to be showing it 24-hours a day. Except that doesn't explain why I'm in line for my third viewing at 2 AM. Lots of the night folk are out for this one, naturally.

I hear hoofbeats down the street. Nine black horses bearing cloaked and hooded riders appear from around the corner. Oh, gosh, no. How did they get here? The crowd goes tense as the horses stop in front of the theatre. The riders dismount and stare at us, then move forward slowly. I think about doing something brave and stupid, then decide that she who backs down deserves an extra large popcorn during the movie.

Stupid line jumpers. Just cause they're servants of the Dark Lord--Gudanov's going to be pissed when he hears somebody else's minions are in town--doesn't mean they get to go to the head of the line.

I let a sigh blow through my teeth at the sight of those damned Wraiths. There's narcissicm, and then there's narcissism. The assholes have been here since the first showing, midnight on Tuesday, and have been hogging spots in line ever since. They have, like, one shot in the movie, but you can feel the preening halfway across the room. I tap Connie on the elbow. "Man, this is getting really old, isn't it? Hell, I'll give them a ring just to go away."

I'm coming out from seeing the second chapter in what I'm told is a three-part comedy epic. Hee hee. The elves are all glowy, rather than vicious dirt-covered snot nosed little kneebiters that learned to weave and dye in pretty colors. And they're good fighters! I almost wet myself watching the first part and the second part was just as funny. Little hobbits and their zany ideas...

Anyway, coming out of the theater I see nine people dressed as the Ring Wraiths cutting into line. People are grumbling and I don't blame them. Everyone will get their chance to see this, there's no reason to be uncivil.

Hee hee. Gimli, always with the wise-cracks...

I step in front of the interlopers and tap my staff on the ground. "Whyn't you hold it a sec Line-jumper Larry? Just step on back to the end and wait your turn like..."

The front Wraith howls, an unearthly hellish noise that makes the knees go watery and the backs of your eyeballs vibrate.

"No need for that, son," I say. "Tantrums are the mark of an undeveloped being. Just shuffle on back there and wait with everyone else. And don't forget to clean up after those horses when you come back out, either, nobody needs piles of unholy horse droppings clogging the storm drains. There's a good chap."

Confused and, apparently, enraged the Wraith draws a wicked looking blade and brandishes it menacingly. "Bbbaaaagggginnnnnsss..." it hisses.

"No, sorry, wrong person. I'm Miracleman..." I snap my fingers and lightning lances from my staff to strike his sword. He drops the suddenly white-hot weapon and howls again, clutching at his burned hand.

"...and I don't like rude people."

Grumbling, hissing and ineffectually waving their fists, the nine cloaked figures move to the back of the line. I head toward the street and home, pausing by them to say "And if I hear one word about thrown Jujyfruits, or 'accidentally dropped' Slurpees from the balcony I will be visiting you and having a stern talk with your employer. Do you understand?" Cowed, they nod.

Heading home I mutter "Gods, I hope they behave. That miserable little counter-jumper Sauron always gets on my nerves and all he has lite beer and instant coffee. No wonder he's cranky."