In which I summon Bruce Springsteen

Friday night the four of us piled into the car and went to purchase our Christmas tree.

What?  Yes it’s late, but I subscribe to my mother’s rule of Christmas tress:  If you get it too early, it dries out which increases the risk of fire.  And also of needles on the floor.  It’s just common sense, people.

Anyway.  We went to the usual place to get our tree, a nursery close by, where they have some of the nicest trees around.  And also the guy that usually sells us the tree has one of the greatest hairpieces around.  Seriously.  Jet black and of epic proportions.  Sadly, he wasn’t there this year.  And yet, we soldiered on.  And bought a lovely Scotch Pine.  But I digress…

On the way there, I was feeling all festive so I decided to switch the radio to our local crapalicious Lite Hits (oh how it pains me to write “lite”) station.  I did it kind of jokingly, since there are very few Christmas ditties that actually do it for me, but I just decided on a whim to get my jingle on.

So The Genealogist says “oh come on, really?”

and I said yeah, let’s just see what comes on!  Maybe we’ll get to hear *making constipated face*  SAAAN-TA CLAUS IS COMIN’ TO TOWN! SAAAANTA CLAUS IS COMIN’ TO TOWN!

And the husband goes “NO come on, ugh Springsteen?? Don’t even joke”

And then, after the commercials, we heard it.  The telltale sound of the Christmas E Street Band shizzle.  Seriously.  I freak myself out, sometimes.

So while Bruce was warbling like a bunged up  banshee, I said “just watch, next they’re going to play Boney M’s Mary’s Boy Child”

And then?

They didn’t play it.

I can’t always be right.



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