With a long sword and a morning star dripping blood and viscera, I hacked and hewed my way through the invading hordes at the Great Christmas Shopping Melee at Mic Mac Mall last evening.

I began my journey with my trusty elven companion at my side, but even with the elder magic of the Deep Woods at his disposal, he was overcome not twenty feet from the front door of The Dreaded Old Navy. I lit his death-pyre there, in front of the Body Shop of Healing and Powerful Scents, speaking the ancient words of power that would send his spirit over the western sea to the Great Court of Food. Then, I made my way forward, though tears streamed from my eyes, blurring the barbarian hordes that flowed like so much avaricious water.

I was on the trail of an artifact of glory, the purportedly mythical Perfect Gift For My Lovely Wife, and my hopes were growing dim.

I tracked down dwarven goldsmiths deep in the bowels of the The Ancient Hudson’s Bay Company, but they drove me off with their kobold soldiers and Blankets of Great Itching.

On I struggled, through many tribulations.

I forced the dark brethren of the Darkest Sect of Winners to their knees, but before they were able to reveal their treasures, a beam of moonlight broke through and the brethren disappeared in a cloud of brimstone and moths.

On I went.

From the confines of The Gap of No Return, I barely escaped from the poison-scaled clutches of the beautiful and bloodcurdling Sirens encamped within. Empty-handed, my quest continued.

Finally, after hours of blood, terror, and death, I found myself in the deepest well of the Mall, cut off from all escape. My sword lay shattered at my feet. I howled from the pain of dozens of wounds which threatened to overcome me. All hope seemed to be lost.

As darkness descended, a deep, honey-toned voice called to me…

“And what do you want for Christmas?”

Looking up, I saw a being out of legends. Tall, stately, with boughs that had never seen the woodsman’s axe. Needles of deepest green. And eyes that had seen the beginning of the world and seemed to look past the very end of time.

It was Woody the Talking Christmas Tree.

Struggling to my feet and preparing myself to meet my doom — for one cannot meet beings of such power and expect to live — I swept an awkward bow and forced my eyes to meet its own. I heard myself speak:

“Oh great and terrible lord, I come from a distant land in search of an item of great power. I hunt for The Perfect Gift For My Lovely Wife. I do this not for myself. Oh no — my greatest desire is to find The Perfect Gift For My Lovely Wife and bestow it — funnily enough — upon My Lovely Wife upon the morn of the twenty-fifth day of this month.

“I am a simple man and do not expect to live after having gazed upon your countenance. All I ask are two boons. I beg of you — send my wife this gift… and send her my bones, so that she may lay them to rest with my ancestors.”

At that, I lowered my head and waited for my doom.

Instead, I felt a great warmth begin within my heart and spread throughout my limbs. I could feel my myriad wounds knitting themselves closed with a burning heat, yet it hurt not at all. And I heard a voice:

“Go, small mortal thing. Your adventures have amused me and taken my mind off my growing Visa bill. Your quest is over. The Perfect Gift For My Lovely Wife is a legend in truth, but I would not have you leave empty-handed…”

Then all was black and I knew no more.

When I awoke, I found myself outside my home. Cheery lights beckoned me.

And in my hand, if not The Perfect Gift For My Lovely Wife — for I now knew it to be a child’s fable and no more — I held a gift sure to make her happy. And I knew… it was enough.

I went in the front door and called out, “Well, I’m back.”

In three days, my Lovely Wife and I will be on a plane headed for St. John’s, Newfoundland. The land of screech and salt beef and pease pudding.

And most importantly, the land of the picking turkey.

Every Christmas eve, my Lovely Wife’s father cooks a turkey. This turkey is not part of a meal. Other meals will be prepared above and beyond this turkey. This turkey will not grace the table at a large family dinner.

Oh no. This turkey is the “picking turkey”. The “picking turkey” exists for one purpose and one purpose only:

If you are feeling hungry and need to “pick at something”, then this turkey is there for you. To pick at.

Do you realise what this means? This turkey is cooked just to be leftover turkey.

It is pure, unadulterated genius.

And this is the man that I have to thank for it:

• Halifax Daily News: “We’re in the sights of America’s right”

One American pundit, Tucker Carlson, said Canada is “like your retarded cousin you see at Thanksgiving and sort of pat him on the head.”

I have many things I would like to say to Mr. Carlson in response to his oh-so-cogent attack on Canada, but I have decided to leave the work to the Insulting Name Generator.

(Typing noises. Short pause. Giggles.)

Tucker Carlson? You are a “zebra bastard zebra zebra zebra zebra fucker Herpesmonkey”.

I’m certain the zebras appreciate your hard work.

I’m in Bloglines, checking my subscribed feeds, seeing if there is anything new. I see that there are two new entries in the eHow.com feed. Now, you might remember, I have a mild amount of scorn for eHow.com, but they do give me chuckle from time to time. So I decide to check it out.

This is what I see:

God help the black-metal band member that mixes these two up.

I sometimes wonder what the correlation is between the looming threat of zombies in our modern world and Paris Hilton’s lazy eye, but then I stop drinking the expired milk and everything clears up.

We’re gonna go “meta” on this fine Zombie Tuesday. You see, I was going to steal share Lazy Jenny McCopycat’s meme, where I create a paragraph using the first line of the first post of every month this year, but I seem to have been painfully boring on the first of every month this year. Excruciatingly so.

Instead, I decided to try it with the first line from every Zombie Tuesday post. Now that seemed a wee bit more interesting.

So allow me to present, the Year That Was In Zombie Tuesday:

You ever have a day that feels like a zombie day? What is it with Tuesdays and zombies? I’m sorry, I couldn’t pass this up. The threat of zombies loom large, dominating the local and national news broadcasts, but you say, “Man, I got plenty of time. Ain’t no way no zombie’s gonna get me.” Food for thought. For a little Flash zombie fun… that very quickly turns surprisingly nerve-wracking… try your hand at a little… Spent all yesterday pouring over mathematical induction, recursive relations, set theory, and other fun stuff like that. Yes! You shoot. Sorry for the lack of effort this morning. Crap. Three Zombie Tuesday haikus. From the journals of Field Marshall Jason Sweeney: “When all was said and done, it truly may have been the birthday cake that saved all our lives.” In this site’s ongoing efforts to ease the conflict betwixt humans and zombies (or Homo sapiens and Homo decomposians), on this fine Zombie Tuesday we wish to open the lines of communication. How have I not found this site before? You should click this link. The creepiest part about this whole thing? Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Seems you can’t step out your door nowadays without running into a zombie mob. This one’s goin’ out to my peeps. Wow. Last night, my dear sister politely requested that I send her the photographs that we snapped at her wedding. This may be… my last post… too sick… too many… peanut butter cups… can’t… stop… eating. I’m getting tired of this. Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! I was still feeling blah. You know, I don’t know if this really qualifies as a “zombie” movie. This Zombie Tuesday is going out to Kulrblind, who said to me: “The zombie tuesday section of your blog? Only mildly amusing for me.” I was planning on presenting a striking array of Christmas-themed zombies, just to show you that I also am capable of getting into the spirit of the season.

Looking at it all like that… all I can think of is that I really want a peanut butter cup.