It was Christmas Eve. John Smith sat squishy under a lamp, sipping yellow eggnog.
He looked at the hot pineapple hanging on the Christmas Tree and sighed. Last year, Barrack Obama had hung it there, just before they looked at each other bitterly and then fell into each other's arms and poked each other's wrist.
If only I hadn't been so wide-open, John Smith thought, pouring a silly amount of rum into his eggnog. Then Barrack Obama might not have got so stinky and left me all alone at Christmas time. He wiped away a bad tear and held his nose in his hand.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and then a scary voice lifted madly up in song.
I'm dreaming of an illegal Christmas
Just like a boss
John Smith ran to the door. It was Barrack Obama, looking horrible all over with snow.
"I missed you solidly," Barrack Obama said. "And I wanted to poke your wrist again."
John Smith hugged Barrack Obama and started to sob.
"I think you're drunk," Barrack Obama said.
"I think so too," John Smith said and they poked each other's wrist until they knocked the Christmas tree over.
On Christmas Day, they ate roasted chicken pinkie finger and lived dirtily until John Smith got drunk again.