GLENN W. MACAULAY

You were quite displeased when your mother pulled the homemade Advent calendar out of her bonnet. Traditionally, you had got your calendar from the magician around the corner, whose wondrous tricks translated surprisingly well to counting down the days in a month. Expecting yet another porridge-covered raisin, you peel off the December 9 window–stuck on with last summer’s gum–to reveal a pleasant surprise:

It’s a wealthy woman trying lobster for the first time! You look back to where your mother is working on her album, expecting a wink or a “I put her there”. Instead, she goes about her business and you think that maybe, just maybe, the magician around the corner is totally boning her after all, for only his magic could produce such a treat.

Only 16 days until you say “I’ll give you your present later” to your significant other, hoping they’ll get horny enough to ignore the fact that you didn’t get them anything, relying on your body and aptitude for sex to keep them satisfied.

While the cider softly boils on the stove next to a pot of warm butter–ready any weary traveller with fresh buns on his knees–you sit down in front of the TV and excitedly peel back the December 8 window on your calendar revealing these two staring into your yellow eyes:

After some initial disgust you realize that they aren’t the prize but rather the prize-mongers, presenting a potted weed, just for you.

“Plant this next to your toy shed,” said the one you figure is a man.
“It will ward off child bandits,” furthered the one you assume is the man’s wife, who you assume is a woman.

You take the weed and close the window on the calendar. You take a long sniff of the thing and it smells like the most delicious candy you’ve ever smelled with rich notes of chocolate, caramel and cherry dust. You remove a small leaf and feed it to your test cat, who gobbles it down without a moment’s notice then ages in front of your eyes into the old girl you always wanted. You now understand the power of the weed and quietly thank Saint Nicholas, for your toy shed had up until that point been the most vulnerable on the compound.

Only 17 days left until your family takes turns bringing gravy to the toilet because you used baking powder instead of flour and they were too scared to tell you. Remember what happened when no one liked your Brussels sprouts? Your cousin never did regrow his nose like you said.

Since it’s Saturday and you don’t have to sheer the goats until sundown, you take a thermos of sauce down to the old barn for today’s calendar treat. You take a seat on the same hay your mother fed to you as a baby and take the Advent calendar out of its folder. Using the fingernails you grew for Halloween and decided to keep because they pick zits so well, you peel back the December 7 window to reveal…

….ooooo look at that! An official NASA terraform sampler set, the very same brought to space by astronauts looking to trade our trees for the aliens’ cure for runny bums. The mission was of course unsuccessful but I’m we’ll all never forget Captain James Bafe’s famous quote, “we thought they’d notice us if we started peeing on the moon, but they never showed. Goddamn cowards”.

Only 18 days left until you go to church only because it’ll kill time before you get that new drill.

You can’t believe that it’s December 5th already, mainly because you were in a coma for most of November. With shaky hands and clouded vision (holdover from the coma), you take an pocket knife to the leather window on your Advent calendar to reveal:

You very own tortoise slave! A big one too. You won’t get to give it a name until you train it to bathe you, but you’re thinking something along the lines of ‘King Plomp’ after a character in the epic dream you had while comatose. 

Only 20 days left until talking to anyone but your family is considered terribly rude. 

You invite your friend Mobert over to share in the opening of the December 4 window on your Advent calendar. After readying the barf bucket, you peel back the steel-enforced cardboard to reveal:

A woman pigging out, watching a closed-circuit feed of you opening the window. You don’t close the window for fear of the universe collapsing on itself.

Only 21 more days left until we take our stockings down and put them back on the big feet of our nation’s basketball stars. For 25 days in December they have to use oven mitts.

After a lovely breakfast of spiced ivy and cranberries on rye, you excitedly peel back the “December 2” window on you calendar to reveal this one act play, already in progress:

The play is called “Rina’s Tacos”.

Only 23 more days until rich people show poor people who’s boss when it comes to putting smiles on the delicate faces of our planet’s children and well-bred pets.

You open the “December 1” window on your Advent calendar to reveal this beautiful, handmade toy:

Only 24 more days left until Santa takes his reindeer out of the pit, loads up his sleigh with Gatorade and hot dog wieners and slides down your chimney to drop off toys and use the shower.