God Bless Mr. Dyson: A Christmas Story.

In an unusual turn of events, to be sure, I am experiencing a Grinch moment. Yes, me, the proponent of all that is Optimistic and Hilarious, yes. My Scrooge-Meter is in overdrive. A Bah Humbug spirit envelops me. Or envelopes me. Whatever. I don't even care.

Note: I warned you. It's not pretty, no.

How can this be? The Trophy Wife Spirit is a joyful and decidedly merry approach to this grand adventure called Life. What the heck?

It all begins with rat poop, but that is true of all great Christmas stories, yes.

Note: Technically, I suppose it begins with the rats themselves with their beady little eyes and their dirty little feet and their nasty, promiscuous ways. In my garage, yes.

It is a warm midsummer day when I notice the first scurries upon entering my the garage, followed shortly by mounds of shredded paper before the sighting of the nasty little pellets. Of rat poop, yes.

The confirmation, yes. Of the rat.

So, I set out a trap or two, not fully understanding the ramifications of the presence of the rat. In retrospect, I realize that I waste valuable time because in the ensuing week or two of trapping nothing, those beady, dirty, nasty, promiscuous rats have been doing the happy dance in my garage, if you know what I mean, and I think you do, and have created hundreds, perhaps thousands more of the beady, nasty, dirty and promiscuous beasts and as you know, the Trophy Wife does not exaggerate such matters.

So, with no recourse, the rat poison buffet begins. And those beady, dirty, nasty promiscuous, and stupid beasts love their Buffet of Death. They consume box after delicious box, probably telling their stupid rat friends all about the free lunch in the Trophy Wife’s garage.

Fast forward to December.

I open the door to The Dungeon, which isn't actually a real dungeon, although that would be hecka cool, but is actually an under-the-house room accessed through the garage and although probably originally intended as a wine cellar, it serves well as a Christmas decoration storage unit, yes.

There is an avalanche.

Of rat poop.

Note: Okay, maybe not an avalanche, exactly.

But it's dirty and nasty. And it's everywhere. There is rat poop in the garlands and ribbons and all that is merry. There is rat poop in the wreaths and trees and the berries. There is even rat poop in the manger.

Note: No, there isn't.

I have found the Lair of the Dead Rats.

So, I'm feeling grinchy, yes. But thanks to Mr Dyson who invented a vacuum cleaner that never loses suction, even when the device is full of rat doodle and has inadvertently sucked up the skeletal remains of a beady, dirty, nasty, lusty, gluttonous beast, yes, and thanks to Mr. Lysol who invented disinfectant which, inadvertently causes a mild, but pleasant high when inhaled by the canfuls, yes, Christmas is cleaned up and back on track, almost.

God Bless us, Every One.

Especially Mr. Dyson.

Heck, yes!