Peter Tuban is going insane.

At least that's a possibility he's seriously considering.

It's the elf sitting on the edge of his kitchen counter.

Snug between his curic and his microwave that is the reason why he's contemplating his

mental well-being.

It wears green and white stockings and a pair of red boots that curl up with the toes

with little brass bells dangling off the ends of them.

Atop its head sits an oversized friggin' cap, the end of which sags, importantly, over

its right shoulder.

It has rosy cheeks, a pair of big blue eyes, a pointy nose, and from ear to ear, it

sports a wide, tight-lipped grin.

It's not a real elf, mind you.

Not in the sense that it's made of flesh and blood.

It doesn't move or sing or dance.

It doesn't live in the North Pole, and it certainly doesn't build toys for all the good

little Gentile boys and girls of the world.

No this elf is 50% wool, 30% polyester, 20% some other synthetic fiber that Peter can't

pronounce, and its body is filled with heavy plastic beads that give it weight.

Peter had purchased it on a whim only a couple hours earlier after stopping into a discount

retail store, on his way back from Poppy's coffee.

He had hoped that it would help sprinkle a little Christmas cheer on his white walled

one bedroom west Hollywood apartment.

...