My Parents Are Mean People:

My parents are cruel, cruel people.  Who enjoy torturing me this time of year.  Like the time my mom wrapped a box of rocks, and when I opened it, said "Oh, looks like you got coal.  Guess Santa thinks you were a bad boy, this year".  (I was three).

Or when they hid all my presents around the house a few years later.  And made me search for them, one by one, simply so they could laugh at me and take pictures ("oh, look, the little retard is actually trying to check the inside of the chimney.  What a dork"). 

Or the time I was around fifteen, when they hid my christmas presents, and insisted I had nothing to open (except a gift card) while my siblings opened everything.  I had to watch everyone opening presents, with absolutely nothing to do.  Which was kind of annoying. 

Or - and this was the worst - was when I was around sixteen or so, and really wanted an electric guitar amp.  They put a huge box under the tree, and I naturally assumed it was the amp I wanted.  And they did little to dissuade that theory.  It was a shelving unit.

Oh, yeah.  A shelving unit I had to put together.  To hold all the clothes and socks I got that year.  Did I mention my dad laughed at me the whole time, with "you should have seen your face"?

The moral of the story is, my parents can be cruel, conniving people who enjoy messing with their eldest because that is how the sick bastards get their jollies.  But I've got a plan this year - I'm getting even.  I can't go into the details, but it involves a clapper, a remote control helicopter, a spray bottle of febreeze, an inflatable Danny DeVito doll, and the tears of a newborn child. 

Aw, man, it's gonna be awesome. 

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