‘Twas a week before Christmas, when at the Nagasawa house, I thought I heard yelling, it must be my spouse; the presents were strewn on the floor without care, she ran out of Scotch Tape and was pulling her hair.
I tried to nestle in a closet to hide, but she still found me and I thought I had died. My wife, with her scissors up in the air, had a huge problem she wanted to share.
“I’m all out of tape,” which was all of her chatter. “You go to the store.” Whereupon I did scatter.
Off to nearby Foodland, I flew like a flash; but first the ATM to secure me some cash. The store was laid out in much Christmas glee, and I couldn’t help notice the holiday spree.
When to my wandering eyes should appear, but various displays of my favorite beers. The signage was festive and lively and shtick, the sight of those brewskis just did the trick.
I whistled and shouted and called out by name: “On Heineken, on Coors and Bud to load in my car, on Corona, Sam Adams and of course Stella Artois.”
Soon my cart was full to the top, I had little cash so I made myself stop.
“But what’s beer without pupus?” I said to myself. And spoke not a word but went right to a shelf.
I laid all my fingers aside of a case, where visions of poke danced in my face. I went to the register to get out of the place, and as soon as I got home, met my wife face to face.
“Where is my tape?” on my back she had rode. I completely forgot it and my head did explode. She laughed out loud and gave me a perk, “Merry Christmas, my completely loveable jerk.”
For next year so as not to look like an ape, when your wife says to buy Scotch, make sure it’s just tape.