Oh mama. Yesterday's attempt to short-circuit the holiday wishing well has gone terribly wrong, and it's all my fault. I thought I was so smart wishing for a lump of coal and some cramps, but the reverse psychology that should have saved me has backfired, leaving me with a waterlogged ceiling that will—if all goes according to plan—fall into my open mouth during the night.
Like furnace failure, plumbing defects always come to light on holidays. Whether or not this is attributable to a secret agreement between Santa and the local plumbers' union, it's plain that the root of this evil lies squarely in the realm of karmic backlash.
So the joke is on me, and I'll do the crying myself. I hate you, Santa Clause.
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