by A. Whitney Brown, from the chapter The environment, or the tale of the old tar:
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I cut down my own Christmas tree every year, but I stalk it for a few hours first. I bagged a seventy-eight pointer last season. I surprised him in a clearing. He was just standing there, growing and throwing off oxygen like there was no tomorrow, dreaming his evergreen dreams. Oh, he was cunning. He thought he'd be safe there in front of the courthouse.
But when I got him home, he was still alive. I should have put him out of his misery, but 'twas the season to be jolly. So I put him in water to make sure he didn't die too quickly. Then I drilled thumbscrews into his little trunk and dressed him up with humiliating balls and stringed tin junk.
The whole family piled presents at his feet, and, just for a tease, we led him to believe they were his. While the rest of us celebrated the coming of he Prince of peace in the spirit of goodwill to all mankind, he withered and died in my living room.
At last he surrendered his essence into the air he helped create, leaving the sweet scent of his corpse as one las gift to the lumbering race. Finally, I ditched him in my neighbor's yard.
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