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Special 03: "Christmas at Sub-Zero"
(A 'Ranma 1/2' fanfiction by Sam A. J. Halsall)

The holidays are upon us once again, and even now I can hear the sounds of carolers singing and children laughing in preparation for their favorite day of the year (which may or may not be a result of that unmarked container of pills I swallowed earlier this evening). In the spirit of tradition, it's time to gather 'round the family TV set and watch all of your favorite Christmas specials, right? Right! Because indulging in thinly-veiled corporate marketing schemes is always more fun than any stuffy religious customs. And we all know and love classics such as Santa Baby, The Smurf's Christmas, The Elf Who Saved Christmas, Fat Albert's Christmas, all those episodes of Growing Pains that took place around Christmas time... Wait a minute, these all suck ass! Where the hell did this stupid list come from? Why am I even reading from a list I didn't write? This is starting to freak me out a little bit.

Anyway, my point is that most people who watch enough TV have at least one Christmas-themed special of some sort that holds wonderful memories for this season (unless you're Jewish, in which case I apologize for insensitive generalizations). I brought this up because, quite frankly, I can't believe that today's featured fanfiction hasn't been accepted into the hearts of millions as another classic holiday special. The fact that an animated version of this heart-warming story isn't airing on national television annually right along with A Peanut's Christmas is an injustice I simply cannot live with! "Christmas at Sub-Zero", as it's called, tells the timeless tale of a girl in distress over the loss of her lover to another woman, and the memories of their last encounter that she clings to ever so dearly.

Yeah, okay, so it doesn't have a whole lot to do with Christmas per se, but what the hell. Just go with it, alright.

The only thing about this fanfic that might need to be changed to make it more accessible to the masses is its name. It's somewhat confusing as it is, since there's no indication whatsoever that the temperature outside is below zero degrees. And, coincidently, there isn't any mention of the refrigerator manufacturing company of the same name either, nor are there any references to the popular Mortal Kombat character. I suppose the profound implications behind the title of Sam A. J. Halsall's modern classic will have to remain a mystery for now... Perhaps taking a closer look at the body of this story will aid us in understanding the author's genius. Here's hoping! In any case, hang up your stockings and say your prayers, 'cause the bizarrely-titled fanfic comes tonight!



First Fan fiction, written in the midst of boredom so forgive if this is dry to say the very least.

Disclaimer: This story is a non-profit work.

If you plan on donating the proceeds to charity, then I think a lot of homeless kids will be going hungry this holiday season.

All significant characters are the property of Rumiko Takahashi, and their use in this story is not intended as an infringement on the intellectual property rights of Ms. Takahashi or Viz Communications.

Just once I'd like to read a disclaimer where the author openly admits that the infringement is intentional. "Up yours, Takahashi! I'm using your characters without permission and you can't do jack shit about it because you live in Japan, and you probably can't even read this so there!"

This story incorporates elements for viewing by adults only. If you are
not old enough to read them in your place of residence, or if mild profanity or
sexual content offend you, you are advised to read no further.

One of these days I'm going to lean my lesson and listen to these disclaimers. Then I'm going to take my computer out into the back yard, douse it in kerosene, and ceremoniously burn it to ashes as I welcome a new phase of joy and prosperity into my life. That will be a grand day, indeed.


Christmas at Sub-Zero
by Sam A. J. Halsall

Whoa, two middle initials? What's up with that, Halsall? Huh!? One wasn't good enough? You think you're better than me!? HUH!?

Shampoo. Named for soap. Soap gets in your eyes. Tears.

Let it be known that placing several random sentence fragments at the beginning of your story does not make it seem interesting or profound. If anything, it's just kind of stupid.

Nine o'clock and all's Hell.
How long have you been crying, Shampoo? Three hours? Four? You seem
such a lonely figure in this giant room, decorated for Christmas. The room,
that is, not you.

"You could have worn that red and green dress or your little Christmas tree earrings, but no, you just had to ruin the possibility for any sense of festivity, didn't you. Bitch."

A present? Is that what you hold in your hand, clutched in your fingers
like a life preserver in choppy water? Such pretty paper, pretty ribbons. And
a tag: To Ranma, Love Shampoo.

PS: There's a strange man here talking over me, describing everything I do out loud. I'm really scared he has a knife or something. Please send help!

But Shampoo, it's Christmas Eve! Why haven't you given him his gift? No
doubt it's something you've worked very hard to make him. Surely he'll like it!

Jeez, Mr. Narrator, why don't you just back off and let Shampoo live her own life.

Ah, yes, the wedding album. Poor girl, you can't keep from looking at it,
can you? The wedding was over a month ago, yet still you never go an hour
without opening this book and reading the words inside.

She reads it every hour? Holy crap, that's some dedicated obsessing. Wait, is this one of those stories where, at the very end, it's revealed that everything was a flashback and the main character ends up in a mental asylum?

'Soun Tendo and Genma Saotome invite you to the wedding of:' And here, two
names are written on a line, a red line like a cut across your throat. 'Ranma and
Akane'. You never thought you'd be so sad to see his name.
Go ahead, Shampoo, turn the page.

Yes, go on and turn it! Turn it and your journey towards the Dark Side will be complete!

There's a picture of the couple taking their vows. Kasumi makes a lovely
bridesmaid, doesn't she?

"Mmm, yeah, Kasumi looks good in that dress, doesn't she? Look at the way that tight fabric hugs her luscious, womanly curves, and how the neckline just hangs off of her soft, round, perky breasts... Oh man, you can totally see where her nipples are poking against the fabric... That's right, weddings turn you on, don't they you hot little slut. Aw yeah. Yeah, daddy knows how you like-- What? Yes, Ranma! We're getting to him, alright!"

And here's a shot of the crowd, gathered here today to bear witness.
There you are in the second row.

"In case you, uh... forgot what you look like...."

You're looking at your shoes. Mousse is trying to comfort you in what
must be the most blatantly self-serving way imaginable.

Mousse: Come on Shampoo, you'll feel better if you touch it!

Great Grandmother is glaring at the soon-to-be newlyweds, half in anger,
half in disbelief, as though she's sure something will happen any minute now.
Someone will burst through the door and stop the wedding. A forgotten fiancee, an
old enemy with a grudge. Someone. Anyone.

Any fanfiction based on one of Rumiko Takahashi's series that doesn't incorporate some sort of wacky deus ex machina to get out of presenting any form of plot resolution has automatically failed in its intended purpose.

The same picture, but this time she's looking at you. Why is that? Oh
right, this is when the priest asked if anyone objected. Of course.

"Now I remember... Heh, sorry. I was pretty wasted when these shots were taken."

She's waiting for you to stand up and shout, "Ranma Shampoo's first!" But you
can't do it. You want to lash out and tell him how you feel about him one more
time. But you can't do it. You're still studying your shoes.

Shampoo: Why Shampoo wear her Birkenstocks today of all days!

And a picture of the kiss. Man and wife. He's not your Ranma. She's not
the callous bitch who abused him.

You say that now, but just wait until they have six kids and she's fifty pounds overweight and he can't manage to make enough from working at the gas station to keep her in supply of bonbons and new issues of TV Guide.

They're a Couple. Married. Lovers. So many of those assembled started
crying. You among them. Though your tears sprang from a different well. A
well of nothing but pure anguish and misery.

Happy Holidays, folks!

Much like now, in fact. If you didn't know better, you'd probably think
the photos were out of focus.

So basically, Shampoo's day consists of her waking up, looking through this wedding album, crying until she can steady herself, reading it again, and repeating the cycle every hour until it's time for bed. Man, she should get herself into a pottery class or something.

You've always loved him. It's not fair. You've loved him since the day
you met him. You woke up from a blackout, your broken weapon atop your head
like some bizarre retelling of the trials of Atlas.

I'll admit that I'm no expert on Greek mythology, but that doesn't sound a whole lot like the story of Atlas to me. If I were Halsall, I would have referenced that one episode where Shampoo pissed off Zeus and was sentenced to hold up the heavens for all eternity.

And there he stood. Your conqueror. The strongest man you'd ever met.
The only one who could defeat even you. You wanted him.

He beat you to a bloody pulp and your sick, twisted mind knew only pleasure! You wanted more! Admit it, you whore!

The laws of your tribe not only supported your desires, they demanded you
act on them.

You persued. He ran. You begged. He resisted. You offered. He

You flipped. He flopped. You rose. He sank. You zigged. He zagged. You limped. He lopped. You--

Yet you couldn't stop. You always were a stubborn girl, Shampoo.

Fresh tears. Poor you. Poor, poor, pitiful you. How can you be so sad
with all the festivity around you?

"I mean, seriously. Just dye your hair black and start cutting yourself for fuck's sake."

So many decorations.
Or maybe that's the problem. Christmas is to celebrate the birth of a
baby. And that reminds you of Ranma and Akane's own bundle of joy, doesn't it?

I'm not sure where exactly you get off comparing the Son of God to some fictional anime couple's bastard lovechild, but thanks for adding blasphemy to the already lengthy list of things I hate about this fanfiction.

You've never quite recovered from that call, have you? You thought it was
someone ordering ramen, so you dragged your self-esteem up onto its
knuckles and picked up the ringing phone. And instead of someone asking for
pork buns, you got Ranma.

Ranma: Hey, Shampoo, got any pork buns over there?

Oh, how your heart leaped, if only for a second. It was just like the old
times. Seeing his face, hearing his voice, even thinking of him would make your
ribs crush the air from you. And you felt just like that at that moment, didn't

Shampoo: Ranma! Oh, Shampoo so very happy to-- ACK SHAMPOO HAVE HEART ATTACK!

And then you remembered. And your heart felt like it was dissolving.
Your eyes felt tight, like a migraine was about to pierce your brain. Ranma was
hers. Not yours.

I guess I just don't see what the big deal is. I mean, just hire an assassin to take care of Akane and bang! Dude's on the market again! Come to think of it, I think I read that exact plotline in another fanfiction one time... It was a lot better than this one.

Didn't help when he told you the news, hmm? About the baby on the way.
Conceived on the wedding night, if your math was right.

Oh yeah, nothing at all suspicious about that. Whatever the relatives want to hear, right.

That seemed to hit you the worst; it was proof that they'd made love. And
once again, he'd been yours first.

She won him one night in an extremely drunken game of Crazy Eights with Genma. Wait, I read that in another fanfiction, too! Son of a bitch.

Remember that night? What was it, six, seven months ago? He came to
your home, shivering in the frigid night wind that sliced through the town. That
gash on his face -- there were splinters in it.

Happosai's panty raids just kept getting more and more violent.

What do you suppose the bitch hit him with? A mallet? A wooden sword?
Or did she simply throw him through a wall?

Hahaha, yeah, that's marriage for ya!

Whatever she'd done, she'd hurt him more than she could possibly have
known. And you could see it in every motion, every expression. It wasn't the
physical pain, no, not Ranma. He could take hundreds of times that much
punishment. No, it was something inside. He'd been wounded somewhere Dr. Tofu
couldn't touch.

Or at least wasn't allowed to touch since the lawsuit...

And you held him as he wept silently. You wanted so much to take him,
didn't you, to make him yours, but you just couldn't. Not like that.

Not since Akane had apparently removed his testicles and replaced them with baggies filled with makeup, glitter, and Hello Kitty figurines.

You couldn't take advantage of the one you loved when he was so vulnerable.

I swear to God, man. I think Halsall is confusing Ranma with some gay houseboy who starts sobbing uncontrollably when somebody insults his Baked Alaska.

What a surprise it must have been for you when you kissed his cheek, and
he responded by kissing you full on the mouth. What you must have felt at that
moment. Did you see fireworks? Did reality slip away like water through your

"Did you silently wish that it was Kasumi kissing you, instead? You'd always wondered what it would be like with a girl, hadn't you, and Kasumi was by far the sexiest woman you had ever laid eyes on. So delicate, so feminine... And yet, you knew there was a sultry, seductive side to her, as well. She seemed to glow like an angle set free from the heavens above, but you knew she was made of flesh the same as you, and had the same needs as any ripe young woman on the verge of-- What? Yeah, I know, I know. You and Ranma. I'm there, I'm handling this."

Seperating for a moment, you looked at his face, trying to read him. To
see if there was some scheme, if someone was playing a joke on you, or if Ranma
just didn't know what he was doing.

Shampoo has gotten really paranoid since the wedding. Chalk another one up for the theory that says this bitch is schizo.

And there was none of that. Nowhere to be seen. He wanted you, needed to
be as close to you as was humanly possible, needed you. And in that moment, you
needed him.

Adultery is a truly beautiful, blessed thing.

All the horrors of your life, the crimes against your poet's soul committed by a
culture that simply didn't care, the unfairness of everyone who had ever seen
you as a means to an end.

"Crimes against your poet's soul"? That might be a fine entry for the 'Most Contrived Bullshit Angsty Quote of the Year' award, but fuck if it belongs in a Ranma 1/2 lemon.

These things vanished in that instant.

There was only you and him. Where was Great Grandmother that night?
She must have been at the restaurant taking care of some business.

But doesn't Shampoo live in the restaurant? Oh man, I hope so. Old people walking in on teenagers having sex always makes from some hilarious off-color hijinks.

Certainly, if she'd seen the two of you undressing each other there on the living room rug,
she'd have approved.

Grandmother: For the love of all that's holy! Not on the $13,000 antique Chinese rug you harlot!

When Ranma slid your robe off your shoulders and left it dangling around
your waist, did you wonder for a moment whether you were doing the right thing?
Silly question -- of course you didn't. There was only one thing on your mind.

Between this and Ranma's girlish weeping, Halsall has pretty much done the full gender-reversal thing here. I wonder if, afterwards, Shampoo is gonna smoke a cigarette and slap Ranma on the ass while he cries into a pillow.

And even if you had cared, all such thoughts would have disappeared once his
lips closed around your nipple.
Oh, how you looked at that moment! Your jaw slack, your head tossed back,
a light sheen of sweat shining on your flushed face.

The mental picture that description is conjuring in my head reminds me of the time I went to that wax museum over summer vacation, and their air-conditioning broke down...

Do you even remember him taking his clothes off? It's doubtful, since
your eyes were clenched shut at the time.

Ranma: Ow! Wait, wait, hold on, let me just unzip my pants before-- Wait, stop, you're pulling my shirt! Hold on a second, I have to-- I said wait! The buttons are st-- Hey! Goddammit this is stupid!

But when his tongue finally stopped flicking at your stiffening nipples, you opened
your eyes. And there he was, as you'd imagined him for so many years.

...As the Fonz! Aaaayh!

It certainly didn't take you long to cast off your robe as though it were
feeding poison through your skin.
His fingertips on your collarbone, on your breasts, and on your stomach.

I've heard of people jokingly say that some porno actors have a third leg, but I guess Ranma has a third arm...

It was all fingertips with that boy. All your lovers before him -- Amazon women,
Japanese men -- all martial artists with something to prove, convinced they had
to display their strength even in the bedroom.

Somehow, if you can believe it, the revelation that Shampoo is a dirty tramp who will do anything that moves kind of betrays the infatuated-yet-emotionally-vulnerable-young-woman image the story is trying to attach to her. To further sabotage his own efforts at writing romance, I can only guess Halsall will have eight more guys randomly show up and turn this into a bukkake scene, finished off by a Great Dane coming in and violating Shampoo up the ass.

Not Ranma. Never Ranma. He wanted to show you his gratitude, his love for you. Because you never judged him, loved him without condition or demand.

The fact that you had repeatedly deceived him for personal gain, drugged him, and even tried to kill him was all water under the bridge now.

His breath. It never felt quite like this. It warmed so much more than
your skin. It seeped through your pores, into your bloodstream, into the marrow
of your bones.

Ranma's breath is that virus from 28 Days Later that turns people into zombies.

But that was nothing next to the heat down below, was it? The liquid rush
you felt as his fingers found the mark you'd so desperately hoped he'd find.

Guess she was afraid he'd get confused and start fingering her ear or something.

How easily they slid back and forth across your bud, the nerves singing a
soprano chorus in your mind. And when fingers were replaced by tongue -- well,
conscious thought pretty well went out and slammed the door behind it, right?

And the soprano chorus in your mind was suddenly replaced by a thumpin' bass and Edwin Starr's rendition of "War" kicked in. And then you were all like "...Awesome."

Your hands were busy themselves. They were so timid, barely brushing
his flesh, as though you were scared he'd be like the others, insulted by you even
wanting to be anything but passive. A fruitless fear.

Your eventual beating was already ensured the minute he walked through the door.

Remember how he gasped when you found him already hard? How he moaned
when you stroked him?

What the fuck, was the narrator watching all of this happen from behind the curtains?

And then he lay on his back and coaxed you on top of him. You wanted to
take in the view of him lying there, his body on display for you and you alone.
Not an accidental encounter in hot water or a glimpse when he didn't think you
were looking. He wanted you to see him, all of him.

Not that there was a whole lot to see. Hoooooo~!

But you couldn't tear your gaze from his eyes. The smile they gave that his mouth
couldn't echo.

Was it like your first time, Shampoo? When you first felt him slide into
you? There he was, underneath you, his most vulnerable part engulfed within
you. Completely in your power.

Every sentence in this scene is further proof that Halsall has never even made it to second base with a real woman.

You must have wanted it to last, so slowly you moved. Yes, you wanted that
feeling to last forever.

Ranma: Oh, yes.... Oh, yeah, baby, yeah! Wow, that was the best four minutes of my life! Well, I've got that early meeting tomorrow... I'll call you... uh, sometime.

All that martial arts training keeping you from bucking like a frightened mare.

Is that sort of training standard procedure in most cases? Damn, I should have stuck with that karate class longer...

Or maybe you just felt it was right, that hard and fast would have ruined the
moment. Whatever, you got no complaints from Ranma. Much as he got no
complaints from you when he took one of your nipples in his his mouth and cupped
the other in his palm.

When he started squeezing it and making honking sounds, though, that was a bit much.

Your breath was so ragged when you neared your climax. As if you'd just
fought a tournament against the best the world had to offer. The look on
Ranma's face as he watched you come, heard your strangled scream.

"Strangled" was a really poor choice of words. It makes this fic sound like the setup for a crossover with Law & Order: SVU.

And the look on your face when he cried out, and you felt him washing into you.
How long did you lie there afterwards, enfolded in each other's arms? How
long did you watch him sleep? How strongly did you wish it could be like this

"How much longer are you going to keep ignoring my questions? I'm not going to leave, you know. I'm the goddamn narrator! It's not like I have anywhere else I need to be. I'll always be right here... Watching you... Just watching.... Watching.... And waiting....."

Ten o'clock, tick tock, and you're crying again. Poor Shampoo. Will you
never learn not to torture yourself so?

Shampoo is depressed. We got it.

The present falls from your hand and lands on the floor. Should you pick
it up again? Well, even if Ranma will never see it, it still won't do to have
it on the ground like this. Great Grandmother will have a fit if she finds it
lying on the floor in three days when the restaurant opens again.

So she'd be fine if she witnessed Shampoo and Ranma going at it on the floor like a couple of animals in heat, but leave a package lying around and she'll freak the hell out.

Oops. All that crying has left you weak. You fall to the floor as you
reach for the present.

Hahahaha! The way I'm imagining that scene is hilarious!

It seems appropriate, somehow, to lie on the floor.
What are you looking at? Ah, your gaze has fallen toward the Christmas
tree. There's a present under there, where none was before. Who could have put it there?

If Santa Claus walks in and tries to put the moves on Shampoo, I swear I'm going to drive over my computer with a steamroller.

And the printing on the tag, is it -- Ranma's?

Carefully, almost frightened, you crawl over to the tree and retrieve the
foreign gift.

Hurry! The suspense is killing me! OH GOD HURRY!!

Look, it IS from Ranma! And it's for you!

Oh, joy! Looks like we're on the road to another banal, artificially happy ending thanks to the unoriginal minds of the fanfiction community.

Your hands tremble as you struggle to make sense of the writing on the tag, the
words suddenly as foreign to you as if they were written in German.

Shampoo: That odd. Since when Ranma spell his name G-U-S-T-A-V?

Now the big question: can you bear to open it? What if it's a picture of
him and Akane on vacation somewhere? Your heart would be pulped as surely
as if a maniac with a shotgun broke in and pumped buckshot into your chest.

Now that would be a fun plot-twist.

No, you seem resigned. You tear the paper oh so gently, as though it were
Ranma's own skin.

Unless the title of your fanfic is "Christmas at Hannibal's House", I can't fathom why you'd think it would be a good idea to use a metaphor involving the removal of a character's flesh in this kind of story.

Slowly, so very slowly, you tear it off.

And inside, you find a note...
"I'll never forget. You mean more to me than I can ever say, and you are
the reason why I am who I am today. If ever you need a friend, I will be proud
to be the one you call.
"Love Ranma."

I don't know which is more bizarre: that vague-yet-intensely-disturbing sex scene I just read, or the fact that Ranma hired Nora Roberts to ghostwrite his Christmas cards.

And in the box is a keyring with a little cat on it. Just like a million
other people have bought from the biggest store in Japan.

Wow. Real original gift idea, ya heartless bastard.

But this one has been hand-dyed pink. And you realize why Ranma's been
wearing gloves for the past couple of days.

Because it's December and he wanted to keep his hands warm. Mystery solved!

More tears, Shampoo? Wait, these are different. These tears sparkle.
Sparkly tears.

Sparkly like that crushed crystal meth the author snorted right before he started writing this.

You bound to your feet, more energetic than you've been in months.
You pause just long enough to snatch his present from the floor where it fell.

You then cringe as you hear many pieces rattling around inside the box, and you wish you hadn't gotten him that very expensive Swarovski crystal figurine.

Then you're sprinting for the door, smiling through the tears, and shouting,
"Ranma you wait! Shampoo have something for you!"

Shampoo: This time it Shampoo who going to give pink pussy to Ranma!

And you skid round the corner and disappear into the night, headed for the
home of the truest friend you will ever have.

Until you find out that there was no argument between him and Akane, and he was just using you for a little free poontang... But that's another story!

Merry Christmas, Shampoo.

Bah, humbug.


Author's notes:

This had better be a formal goddamn apology for the last seven pages...

Two days after I finished this story, Viz Video announced the release
of the upcoming Ranma 1/2 video "Soap Gets in Your Eyes". So the opening
paragraph is not a reference to any of the events on that tape.

Oh, I see, so it was just a really convenient coincidence that you happened to use that exact same phrase for a story about the same starring character just two days before Viz announced the title of that particular volume. Uh-huh. Sure. (I don't really care one way or the other, I just want everyone to know he's lying.)

I realize this one's a little melodramatic. I just wanted to try
something different from the usual Shampoo raping/being raped stories.

This time it was the readers who were forever robbed of their innocence.

Plus, it's my first shot at fan fiction. Let's hope those six years of writing
courses paid off somehow.

Umm, I think you might be confusing "years" with "hours". And even then....

For anyone who's interested, the story took me about an hour to write.
That was after I spent a couple of days kicking around the idea.
Comments or questions? Write to


Man, did that fanfic ever put me in the Christmas spirit! Its sullen and depressing storyline coupled with that awkward third-person narration just pumped my heart full of holiday cheer like a fatal injection of epinephrine!

Alright, so I'll admit that some aspects could have been worse, and it did try awfully hard to feature a happy ending, which I guess is commendable for this kind of story. Unfortunately, any sense of happiness I might have had for Shampoo was pretty much shattered thanks to Halsall's own warped characterization of Ranma. He's supposed to be this knight-in-shining-armor type of male protagonist, yet he disregards Shampoo's feelings entirely until he needs her for some Chinese Amazon lovin', at which point he cheats on his pregnant wife for a lousy one-night stand with a girl he's all but ignored for as long as he's known her. Then, he ditches her for half a year, only to leave her a cheap, generic Christmas gift that he was too spineless to give her in person, along with a card that basically says "Thanks for the sex, let's just be friends." What the fuck kind of dumbass redneck trailer park white-trash shithole of a household do you have to come out of to think that kind of behavior is acceptable, much less heroic? Ranma wasn't some romantic gallant in this story, he was a chauvinist asshole who should have gotten his penis revoked.

Given the male lead's level of sleaziness, I guess it's ironically fitting that Shampoo was basically portrayed as a whore for the duration of this fic. And not the kind of whore you always see on those detective shows who is surprisingly hygienic and has a heart of gold deep down... No, she was more like the kind of self-hating, crazy-ass whore who has to pop two or three bottles of pills every day just to keep from going batshit and clawing her own eyes out, and even then she's somehow still unstable enough that you wouldn't want to be alone with her in any place where sharp objects were present.

This fanfic had a few other issues that I'd like to briefly touch on, but I guess that's enough for today. It's Christmas, so my present to all of you will be me shutting up before these closing notes turn into a full-fledged rant. But don't think that means you're off the hook, fanfiction authors! Soon the holidays will be over, and I'll be able to once again return to being a callous, spiteful bastard ready to shred your writing accomplishments to bits without so much as a hint of remorse!

As for the rest of you, sorry I had to ruin your holiday celebrations by showing you that awful story. Maybe this won't make it as a classic Christmas special, after all... Although, the really sad part is that it was still way more enjoyable than Jeff Foxworthy's Redneck 12 Days of Christmas. Yes, people from the South are all inbred and stupid. We get it. There's nothing festive about pointing out the failings of America's educational system.