Poetry’s unnat’ral; no man ever talked poetry ’cept a beadle on Boxin’ Day.

The Christmas tree inspires a love/hate relationship. All that time spent selecting and decorating, and a week after, you see it by the side of the road, like a mob hit. A car slows down, a door opens and a tree rolls out. People snap out of Christmas spirit like it was a drunken stupor, "There's a tree inside the house! Throw it anywhere."

I tell you one thing I'm upset about: the day after Christmas my tree is all dried up, all brown. I went back to where I bought it, and the whole place is gone. This is the last year I buy my Christmas tree from one of those fly-by-night businesses.

The day after Christmas: When we all have two more ugly sweaters.