I don’t know what’s up with my mom and my sister when it comes to decorating the Christmas tree: with cockroaches and mice running wild inside the insides of walls, I find the whole plan of an “edible tree” dubious. Before I left, my sister was taping up yarn and chocolate coins to add to the already gaudy display of a Christmas tree with candy canes and small oranges. I expect to come home today to the tune of a brightly-lit Christmas tree that has chicken drumsticks hanging on it, covered with the tinsel of oily adobo flakes.
My idea of the perfect Christmas tree is a sexy prostitute dressed in a risqué Santa Claus outfit decked in frosty beer cans and Christmas lights, but that’s for a floor show in a nightclub. There are other perversities like Santa-fetish bukkake, but that’s for another time. I don’t know about this year’s Christmas tree at home, though: maybe there’s room in it for glittery scales of tuyo. It is, after all, a time for economic crisis.