FICTIVE I SWEAR

The Binch Who Stole Xmas

Please don’t sue me for this one.

Every Poppit down in Poppittown liked Yuletide a lot… But the Binch, who recently moved up the road, did not. Please don’t ask why. No one knows the reason.

It could be her esthetician didn’t pinch those cheeks rosy enough It could be she had no one left to take all her guff.

But I think the most likely reason of all, Was she had fewer ways to make the Mr. Poppit feel small.

Whatever the reason, her cheeks or her guff. She rarely said kind things, except in a breathy huff.

She stared down on Christmas season, hating you-know-who. Staring down from her new life up the road with that grouchy frown. A frown like an old moldy pickle from the back of the fridge. Her face twisted up, snarled — a vile gridge.

He hung those new stockings, she grimaced and gasped. “Christmas can’t go on without me! You broke tradition!” she moaned — anxious hands clasped.

“I MUST find a way to keep Christmas from coming” “I must stop his rizz. It’s a shame that last decade, I didn’t stop his ji — nevermind.”

This season, she knew, the Poppit children would enjoy the break. “They might even nap!”, The Binch said with a shake. There’s one thing she hated! Naps. NAPS! NAPS! MORE NAPS!

Then the Poppits, young and old, would awake to have fun. They might even play video games or enjoy a good pun. Fun was something the Binch couldn’t stand in the least! Wordplay and video games were the most hideous beasts!

Then the Binch got an awful, wonderful, awful idea.

“All I need is a new suburban assault vehicle…” The Binch looked around. But, since APRs were so high, there were none to be found. Did that stop the Binch? NO! APRs are just in your head. The Binch simply said, “I’ll overpay for used instead.”

So she summoned her car like it was Night Rider and shit. But instead of speaking, it played Taylor Swift’s crappy hits.

That’s right, all this was a setup for a hit on old Taylor Swift. Listening to her music is a lot like getting hit in the noggin by a faulty ski lift.

Let’s get back to the story. It’s not quite yet done. And to some, this story will feel like a cathartic rerun.

SO she loaded up boxes and a few empty sacks. She filled it up — up to the max. And her car started down to where the Poppits still lived.

When she came to the house where Mr. Poppit lay asnooze in his bed. She woke him yelling, “You were a mistake. We should have never wed.”

She cleaned out the icebox as quick as a flash. She tried to take just-purchased San Pellegrino as she raided the cache.

The Binch went to the pantry and took most of the spice. Most were out of date — a worthy sacrifice.

Then she slithered and slunk, with a smile esthetician-enhanced I’ll throw your dress shirts in the corner because YOU’RE a meany pants.

She took anything that wasn’t nailed down tight. The Excel community property file, The Binch didn’t give co-editing rights!

Then she walked all the items out the door with glee. “Mr. Poppit’s a narcissist, and now I’ll be free!”

With the Poppits still reeling from shared family trauma. She yelled back a falsehood about being a single momma.

Mr. Poppit knew how to change diapers and read with the kids. He knew how to scrub toilets and put down the lid.

He knew how to cook pot roasts and fold socks. And helped the little Poppits mind their clocks.

PoohPooh to the Mr. Poppit, she gleaned and she glistened. “Christmas will be at my house, you should have all listened”.

“The Poppits will learn Christmas is attached to my personal expression.” “When the kids find out you do it all wrong, you’ll have a depression”

She wanted the tears, rending, weeping, and gnashing. Mr. Poppit remained stoic and strangely dashing The Binch lost her power to do verbal bashing.

“I know what they'll do. The Poppits down in Poppittown will cry boo hoo!” “That idiot Mr. Poppit won’t know what to do!” “That’s a NOISE I simply must hear. I’d love to see him cry into his beer” The Binch listened.

But, on Christmas Day.

But the sound wasn’t sad! The sound was still merry. The Binch puzzled for hours until her puzzler was sore.

“Maybe Christmas”, she said “doesn’t come from Amazon Prime” “A little less materialism isn’t such a crime.”

Then the Binch’s small heart grew three sizes that day. She shopped a lot less and her paychecks would stay.

And the minute her heart didn’t feel so tight, She whizzed in her vehicle, stopping appropriately at lights. She brought back the foam rollers, knickknacks, and community property not discussed.

Mr. Poppit was so shocked he appeared concussed. And she, SHE HERSELF! The Binch, poured the San Pellegrino.

THE END