From the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in the wilds of Connecticut, this is obscure

season two, Frankenstein.

I am your host, your friend, your ear lover, your literary mansplainer in chief and

Georgianologist, Michael Ian Black, speaking to you, host Christmas, and experiencing the

after blow of Christmas cheer.

Yes, there was Christmas cheer in my house, despite my own scrujiness, which is scrujie

indeed.

I have lamented elsewhere that I do not care for Christmas, I will lament here again,

I do not care for Christmas, and yet, even I, whose heart is as compact as one of scrujie's

little coals, that he reluctantly feeds into the stove to keep his imporium warm.

Even I felt myself experiencing some Christmas cheer on the day, as the children, young adults,

were unwrapping their gifts, as the wife and I were unwrapping our scanty gifts, scanty

because we neither wanted nor desired anything, and we each exchanged a couple little things.

My big gift that I requested was a fogless shave mirror, which probably cost all of $6.

But the kids were happy, and when they're happy, I'm happy, and when I'm happy, nothing,

when I'm happy nothing, you know, there's no residual effects of my happiness that spread

through the house, nobody cares about my feelings, that's just the way it is, when you're

the dad, nobody gives a shit about how dad is feeling, and you know, there's some relief

in that, because you feel no obligation to feel one way or another since nobody's taking

their cues from you.

As parents, we take our cues from how our children are feeling, my spouse, Martha, takes

her cues from how she is feeling, nobody takes their cues from me.

...