Looking out my window yesterday and who do I spot sauntering down the street minding his own business - Saint Nick himself, Santa. He looked exhausted after the holiday - not carrying anything, taking his fine old time reaching the corner. And then, when he’s out of my window frame, believe it or not, here comes Ms Claus, dressed just as shabbily as her formerly crazy busy ball and chain. They were mirror images of each other, except for his flowing, triangle shaped white beard, maybe triple the size of a pizza slice. And to top things off, this morning on my way to the deli, when I see the not so little woman, she tears me a new one with fouler language than a Hells Angel methed up with food poisoning. Tourettes.
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