Just Like a Christmas Tree in Bondage, Boyyyy

We Jingos like a disciplined life. Up at five, family calisthenics, cold showers, a breakfast of Graham crackers and castor oil, and off to the affairs of the day. Christmas decoration is nothing if not spartan chez nous: a small wooden creche on the coffee table, an unadorned wreath on the front door. Strings of lights are vulgar things, and music is banned from our home as inflaming to the senses and heightening of the passions -- fallibilities best avoided by the proper bourgeois family of good breeding. Our children have learned that elaborate Christmas presents are privileges only for the nouveaux riches; for those of our social class, we make do with the annual single orange and pencil-box in our stockings.

It is in this spirit of the avoidance of excess -- how fervently it is to be wished that others might follow our virtuous example! -- that I present our Christmas tree:


A damned fine sight, don't you agree? Tightly disciplined, its sinews straining at their bonds as it gazes demurely at its masters, clad in their leather evening-wear and boots, riding-crops ready to administer richly deserved correction at a twig out of place here, a dropped needle there.... With anxiety growing to fever pitch, the scent of fear in the air, the tree, bound and helpless, anticipates the next application of the bullwhip of loving discipline....

Oh! Sorry. Where was I...?

(Oh, foo! The tree has a safe word!*)

Finally, its Calvary ended by a merciful and just master, it is time to release the trembling pine from its durance vile.

Helpful Kittehs are helpful:


I find it passing strange how a fluffball of Dangerous Cuteness can in an instant assume a facial expression of Full-On, Raging Psychosis when confronted with a loose (and undisciplined!) bit of string:


Come to think of it, the moggie has learned from Master to rage at slovenly lower-class disorder. Clearly, he's attempting to hank the string neatly and place it in a drawer with other hanked strings from Christmases past, there to wait the day when its usefulness becomes apparent. Good kitty! You are excused from your evening spanking -- this once.


There. Isn't that better, little tree? Not that you have successfully survived your ordeal, you will be festooned in furs and leathern gew-gaws, and made a full member of our family until your needles drop out and your faded beauty no longer appeals to us.

It is The Way.

______

*"Oh, God! Please stop! Owwwwww!" Not that I've ever actually heard it. It's a very good tree.